UCS6  LIBRARY 


THE 


YOUNG    LADIES' 


OASIS: 


OR, 


of 


ani 


EDITED    BT 


N.    L.    FERGURSON 


"  A  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned, 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command, 
And  yet  a  spirit,  still  and  bright, 
With  something  of  an  angel's  light." 


SECOND    EDITION. 


LOWELL: 

NATHANIEL    L.  DAYTON. 
1851. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1850, 

BY  NATHANIEL  L.  DAYTON, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  Massachusetts. 


STEREOTYPED  AT  THE 
BOSTON     STE11EOTYPE     FOUNDRY. 


INTRODUCTION. 


ACCORDING  to  lexicographers,  the  "  oasis  "  is  well 
understood  to  be  a  bright,  refreshing  spot,  in  a  bar- 
ren and  sandy  desert.  How  far  this  may  be  con- 
sidered true  of  the  "Young  Ladies' Oasis,"  com- 
pared to  the  many  valuable  and  meritorious  works 
already  before  the  public,  designed  for  the  gentler 
sex,  the  compiler  leaves  for  its  readers  to  judge. 

We  do  not,  however,  in  this  compilation,  assume 
to  be  first  in  rank,  or  last  in  merit.  We  have  culled 
from  many  of  the  flowers,  and  have  endeavored  to 
form  such  an  arrangement  of  prose  and  poetry, 
combined  with  moral  and  religious  sentiment,  as, 
we  trust,  will  not  only  amuse  and  be  acceptable  to 
the  reader,  but  that  the  good  impressions  left  on 
the  mind  may  have  a  tendency  to  elevate,  and 
stimulate,  to  higher  and  more  intellectual  attain- 
ments. 

N.  L.  F. 


(cO  - 


CONTENTS. 


My  Books Curiosities  of  Literature  11 

The  Oasis Miron 12 

Presentation  to  a  Lady W.  A.  Butler 13 

Woman,  Man's  best  Friend C.  M.  Clark 14 

Woman,  the  greatest  Asocial  Gift  to  Man.  ..A.  B.  Whelpley.. ......  16 

To  Amanda Amelia 22 

Gentle  Words C.  D.  Stuart 23 

Marriage Tupper 24 

A  Gem Anon 24 

I  would  be  thine Anon 25 

A  Dressy  Woman Anon 26 

Home Anon 36 

Sweet  Annie  Fay Mrs.  Anna  Saltus 37 

To  a  Sister Everett 38 

A  Token Anon 40 

Economy  and  her  Daughter Miss  E.  A.  U.  ....'.....  41 

Three  Angel  Spirits C.  D.  Stuart 47 

Friendship,  Love,  Truth Anon 48 

Be  kind  to  each  other C.  Swain 49 

Give  me  the  Hand Goodwin  Barnby 50 

The  Palace  of  Beauty Mrs.  Child 51 

( 
1* 


6  CONTENTS. 


Beauty  every  where Anon 62 

A  Lady's  Hand Anon 63 

Neatness Anon 64 

That  same  Old  Girl B.  S.  French 64 

Lake  and  River..... H.  F.  Gould 66 

Memory Anon 67 

Beautiful  Extract Anon 68 

Ladies  of  Long  Ago Longfellow's  Col 69 

The  Truest  Friend Charles  Swain 70 

A  Lovely  Bride Anon 71 

The  Wedding  Ring Bel.  Hargrave 74 

A  Little  Word Anon....: 75 

Wedding  Gifts Tupper 76 

A  Mother's  Smile Carpenter 77 

True  Love  and  a  Happy  Home Anon 78 

HomeforAll W.H.P 79 

Woman Anon 80 

The  Man  I  like Clara  Manchester 81 

The  Lily J.  G.  Percival 82 

The  Church  Bell Clara  Cushman 83 

A  Word  to  the  Sorrowing Hannah  M.  Bryant. ..  91 

TheDeserted Mrs.  W.Stevens 92 

Virtue  and  Ornament Dr.  Fordice 94 

To  Mimosa Anon 95 

Ninomah  Lawrence  Lovell 96 

A  Simile Percival 97 

Friends Montgomery 98 

Submission. Anon 99 

The  Dissatisfied  Spirit Fanny  Forrester 100 

May  Morning Mrs.  J.  Thayer 105 

ToaFlower Proctor 106 


Co) 


Co) 


CONTENTS. 


The  Flower  and  the  Tree G.  P.  Quackenbos 107 

The  Invisible  King Anon 109 

What  a  "World  this  might  be C.  Swain 113 

A  Lady's  Valentine Anon 1 14 

How  much  there  is  that's  beautiful .>S.  W.Lloyd 116 

Friendship .....John  Neal 117 

They  awoke  in  Heaven From  the  German 118 

Heaven l-'cutus 131 

Reunion  in  Heaven Anon 132 

I  wish  I  were  at  Rest  in  Heaven Anon 133 

The  Bible Anon 136 

Sweet  Memories Amelia 136 

Time  to  me Charles  Swain 137 

Benevolence Anon 138 

Amiability Anon 139 

Be  kind  to  the  Beggar D.  C.  Colesworthy  ....  142 

Give  as  God  hath  given  thee Anon 144 

Who  is  my  Neighbor Anon 145 

The  Abuse  of  Fiction Bruno 146 

Poetical  Portraits Anon 152 

Poetry  every  where Anon 155 

An  Allegory E.  C.  P.. 158 

Clinging  to  Earth Fanny  Forrester 166 

Aspiring  to  Heaven Fanny  Forrester 167 

My  Bird Emily  C.  Judson 169 

To  Mrs.  Judson Anon .*. . . .  170 

Mrs.  Judson's  Burial  at  St.  Helena H.  S.  Washburn 171 

Early  Piety Anon 173 

To  my  Sister  with  a  Bible Anon 174 

Time Rambler 175 

Happiness C.  Fry 176 


Co) 


8  CONTENTS. 


Musings Hannah  M.  Bryant ...  186 

Sparge  Rosas Miron 187 

Passing  Away Mrs.  Humans 189 

Evergreens Pinckney 190 

Withered  Leaves Anon 191 

Pretty  Women By  a  Pretty  Woman  . .  192 

The  Sewing  Circle Anon 198 

Innocent  Pleasures Anon 199 

Woman  and  Fame Mrs.  Hemans 200 

Doubt  not Anon 201 

A  Sentiment Longfellow's  Col 202 

Never  give  up Tupper 203 

Young  Wives S.  P.  G 204 

All  alone H.K.White 208 

The  Invocation Mrs.  Hemans 209 

A  Wish Anon 210 

Lost  Time Anon 211 

Sister,  since  I  met  thee  last Mrs.  Hemans 212 

To  Lucretia Benedict 213 

Woman Longfellow 214 

Man  and  Woman ; Anon 215 

To  my  Mother I.  F.  Shephard 218 

Farewell  to  my  Mother Anon 220 

To  Miss  F.  A.  L.,  on  her  Birthday Mrs.  Hemans 221 

The  Young  Wife's  Appeal Anon 222 

I  live  to  love Effie  May 223 

Friendship G.  S.  Munroe 224 

Be  kind Anon 225 

Be  kind  to  Old  Age G.  H.  C. 227 

Good  Night Mrs.  Hemans 228 

Time  for  all  Things Rev.  D.  C.  Eddy 229 


—Co) 

CONTENTS.  9 


Burns  and  his  Highland  Mary Anon 231 

To  Mary  in  Heaven Burns 233 

Smiles H.  S.  C. 237 

Faraway Mrs.  Remans 238 

The  Lady  Rose Anon 239 

The  Bird  at  Sea Mrs.  Remans 240 

A  Simile Miron 241 

The  Prairie Anon 242 

Fable  of  the  Wood  Rose  and  the  Laurel.  .Anon €243 

Margery W.  Deardon 245 

Returning  a  Stolen  Ring C.  Sherry 247 

The  Voice  of  Spring  and  Autumn Anon 248 

I  go,  sweet  Friends Mrs.  Remans 250 

Good  By Anon 251 

History  of  Life Crowett 2-52 


:o>= 


THE 


YOUNG   LADIES' 

OASIS. 


MY  BOOKS. 


GOLDEN  volumes  !  richest  treasures ! 
Objects  of  delicious  pleasures  ! 
You  my  eyes  rejoicing  please, 
You  my  hands  in  rapture  seize, 
Brilliant  wits  and  musing  sages, 
Lights  who  beamed  through  many  ages  ! 
Left  to  your  conscious  leaves  their  story, 
And  dared  to  trust  you  with  their  glory ; 
And  now  their  hope  of  fame  achieved, 
Dear  volumes  !  —  you  have  not  deceived  ! 


12  THE    OASIS. 


THE    OASIS. 


THE  travellers  passed  o'er  a  desert  drear, 

'Neath  scorching  suns,  o'er  scorching  sands  ; 
Few  fertile  spots  the  vision  cheer, 

Few  welcome  shades  invite  their  bands  : 
Day  after  day  they  travelled  on, 

Till  fell  exhaustion  claimed  the  breath  ; 
When  fainting,  at  the  setting  sun, 

A  broad  Oasis  saved  from  death  : 
They  ate,  they  drank  —  forgot  their  fears  ; 
Again  the  future  bright  appears. 

Not  far  unlike  it  is  this  age 

Of  red  and  yellow  novel  reading ; 
Fiction  and  trash  are  all  the  rage  ; 

Sense  to  be  heard  in  vain  is  pleading  ; 
The  mind,  in  error's  mazes  lost, 

Sickens  for  want  of  solid  duty ; 
It  finds  it  —  but  at  what  a  cost !  — 

Perceptions  dulled  to  truth  and  beauty : 
But  here's  a  pure  OASIS  spread, 

To  purify  both  heart  and  head. 


—Co) 


PRESENTATION    TO    A    LADY.  •  13 


PRESENTATION  TO  A  LADY. 


I  BEG  thee  keep  this  simple  gift 

For  one  who  oft  will  think  of  thee, 
And  feel  most  happy  should  it  bring 

Some  passing  memory  of  me. 
Not  when  the  smile  is  on  that  brow, 

Though  then  thou  seem'st  some  spirit  bright ; 
Not  when  the  tears  of  sorrow  flow, 

To  chase  away  that  spirit's  light ; 
Not  in  the  crowd,  that  hollow  cheat, 

Where  grief  is  decked  in  festal  flowers, 
And  the  free  heart  fgrgets  to  beat, 

And  folly  draws  insipid  hours  ; 
Nor  would  I  have  thee  think  of  me 

When  morning  wears  her  robes  of  dew, 
And  wild  birds  wake  their  reveille, 

And  thou  hast  caught  the  morning's  hue. 
No  !  let  it  be  the  twilight  hour, 

When  musing  memory  loves  to  reign, 
And  gather  up  each  germ  and  flower 

That  scatter  o'er  life's  travelled  plain. 
No  matter  where  my  steps  may  stray, 

How  dark  or  bright  my  fate  may  be  ; 
Yet  still  through  life's  unmeasured  way, 

Believe  me  a  true  friend  to  thee. 


14  WOMAN  MAN'S  BEST  FRIEND. 


WOMAN  MAN'S  BEST  FRIEND. 


WHEN  woman  smiles,  she  has  the  power 
To  heal  our  griefs,  and  calm  our  fears ; 

Should  sickness  wound,  should  fortune  lower, 
She  shares  our  sorrows,  dries  our  tears. 

And  she  can  soothe  the  cares  of  age, 
As  rolls  time's  furrowing  course  along  ; 

Can  cheer  us  with  the  classic  page, 
Or  lull  us  with  the  magic  song 

When  stretched  upon  the  bed  of  death 
Departing  nature  struggling  lies, 

At  that  dread  pause,  when  the  next  breath 
May  waft  our  spirit  to  the  skies, — 

When  the  soul  views  the  narrow  verge, 
Close  on  the  confines  of  the  grave  ;  — 

And  now  it  longs  its  flight  to  urge, 
Now  wishes  for  an  arm  to  save  ;  — 

Who  cheers  that  dreary  scene  of  woe  ? 

Who  speaks  of  peace,  and  joy,  and  love  ? 
Who  wipes  the  tear-drops  as  they  flow  ?  — 

'Tis  woman  —  sent  from  Heaven  above  ! 


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Who  speaks  of  peace,  and  joy,  and  love  ? 
Who  wipes  the  tear-drops  as  they  flow  ?  — 
'Tis  woman  —  sent  from  Heaven  above  ! 


WOMAN    MAN'S    BEST    FRIEND.  15 

'Tis  she  receives  our  parting  sigh  — 
'Tis  she  who  hears  our  latest  breath  — 

'Tis  she  who  seals  the  closing  eye, 

And  whispers  peace  and  hope  in  death. 

And  when  the  mournful  scene  is  past, 

'Tis  woman  weeps  upon  our  bier ; 
Silent,  —  yet  long  her  sorrows  last ; 

Unseen  she  sheds  affection's  tear ! 

On  earth  she  is  the  truest  friend 

That  is  to  man  in  mercy  given ; 
And  when  this  fleeting  life  shall  end, 

She'll  live  for  purer  joys  in  heaven. 

0  woman,  woman !  thou  art  made, 

Like  Heaven's  own  pure  and  lovely  light, 

A  sun  to  cheer  life's  desert  shade, 

And  gild  the  gloom  of  sorrow's  night. 


16          WOMAN    THE    GREATEST    SOCIAL    GIFT    TO    MAN. 


WOMAN  THE  GREATEST  SOCIAL  GIFT  TO  MAN. 


"  Hail,  woman,  hail !  last  formed  in  Eden's  bowers, 
'Mid  humming  streams,  and  fragrance-breathing  flowers ; 
Thou  art,  'mid  light  and  gloom,  through  good  and  ill, 
Creator's  glory  —  man's  chief  blessing  still. 
Thou  calm'st  our  thoughts,  as  halcyons  calm  the  sea, 
Sooth' st  in  distress  when  servile  minions  flee  ; 
And  0,  without  thy  sun-bright  smiles  below, 
Life  were  a  night,  and  earth  a  waste  of  woe." 

IN  the  present  age,  when  the  advantages  of  edu- 
cation and  the  facilities  for  acquiring  it  are  so 
numerous  and  so  widely  extended,  the  treasures  of 
knowledge  are  laid  open  to  all.  There  is  no  longer 
what  used  to  be  styled  the  royal  road  to  knowledge, 
of  which  the  children  of  fortune  could  alone  avail 
themselves,  and  from  which  the  mass  of  mankind 
were  excluded.  A  highway  has  been  cast  up  for  all 
—  a  way  so  plain  that  the  feeblest  mind  need  not 
err  therein ;  which  the  infant  as  well  as  the  giant 
intellect  may  explore,  and  all  may  reap  the  reward 
of  their  labors,  if  not  contribute  to  the  general  stock 
of  knowledge. 

The  old  distinctions  between  the  sexes,  founded 
upon  a  supposed  radical  difference  of  their  mental 


WOMAN    THE    GREATEST    SOCIAL    GIFT    TO    MAN.          17 

powers ;  the  antiquated  prejudices  against  female 
education  which  had  their  origin,  if  not  in  the  love 
of  superiority,  in  the  ignorance  of  the  true  nature 
and  destiny  of  mind,  are  now  rapidly  passing 
away.  The  nineteenth  century  has  the  honor,  if 
not  of  discovering  the  great  truth,  of  bringing  it  out 
more  fully,  that  THERE  is  NO  SEX  IN  MIND:  that 
mind  is  the  same  in  all  intelligent  beings,  angelic  or 
human,  male  or  female ;  that  its  attributes  and  its 
exalted  powers  are  the  same  in  the  infant  as  in  the 
seraph,  and  if  its  attributes  and  powers  are  the  same 
in  all,  it  must  be  created  for  the  same  noble  pur- 
poses, and  fitted  for  the  same  high  destinies.  Mind 
is,  in  its  own  nature,  independent  of  the  modifica- 
tions of  matter;  it  is  a  spark  of  that  living  intelli- 
gence which  nothing  can  extinguish :  there  is  no 
distinction  but  that  of  mind  in  heaven.  '•  for  there 
they  neither  marry,  nor  are  given  in  marriage,  but 
are  as  the  angels  of  God." 

A  just  and  proper  appreciation  of  the  powers  and 
capacities  of  woman,  has  not  only  clearly  indicated 
her  true  position  and  amazing  influence  in  society, 
but  also  awakened  a  deep  and  universal  interest  on 
the  subject  of  female  education,  which  has  of  late 
especially  employed  so  many  able  pens  and  power- 
ful minds.  She  is  no  longer  viewed  as  a  mere 
housekeeper,  or  as  the  object  of  mere  fond,  idola- 
trous attachment  in  the  social  circle,  or  the  play- 
thing of  man's  idle  hours,  but  as  occupying  a 
position  of  immense  responsibility,  and  contrib- 
—  1 

2» 


18          WOMAN    THE    GREATEST    SOCIAL    GIFT    TO    MAN. 

tiling  largely  to  the  elevation  and  happiness  of  her 
species. 

Heretofore,  with  some  rare  exceptions,  in  ficti- 
tious writings  and  light  literature,  she  has  been 
made  to  figure  as  the  heroine  of  some  romantic  love 
scene,  adored  for  her  beauty  and  personal  charms, 
and  celebrated  for  her  adroitness  in  captivating  and 
deceiving  the  weak-minded  of  the  other  sex. 
Christianity,  combined  with  education  and  the  cul- 
tivation of  refined  literary  taste,  has  exalted  her  to 
her  true  position  as  an  intelligent  moral  being  ;  and 
these  advantages,  far  from  being  inconsistent  with 
social  qualifications,  and  her  domestic  duties  and 
relations,  are  found  admirably  harmonizing  with 
them,  and  in  an  eminent  degree  beautifying  and 
perfecting  them. 

The  true  sphere  of  woman  is  the  domestic  circle  ; 
and  she  should  endeavor  to  invest  herself  with 
every  qualification  calculated  to  render  her  interest- 
ing and  agreeable,  as  well  as  useful,  in  that  sphere : 
this  is  the  way  to  impart  lustre  to  her  most  unos- 
tentatious duties,  and  to  give  dignity  to  the  hum- 
blest station.  It  should  be  deemed  a  matter  of  no 
small  importance,  that,  while  every  power  of  the 
mind  is  cultivated,  the  external  graces  of  manner 
are  not  neglected.  Though  good  manners,  from 
the  operation  of  adverse  causes,  are  not  always 
found  attending  high  intellect  and  great  learning, 
yet  in  general  they  furnish  a  correct  indication  of 
the  progress  made  in  mental  cultivation.  The  re- 


WOMAN    THE    GREATEST    SOCIAL    GIFT    TO    MAN.          19 

mark  admits  of  but  few  exceptions,  that  coarseness 
of  manners  evinces  an  uncultivated  mind.  The 
society  which  an  individual  frequents  has  a  great 
influence  in  moulding  the  manners.  Books  of  an 
elevated  character  have  also  a  potent  influence, 
especially  an  intimate  acquaintance  with  the  sacred 
writings.  A  degree  of  refinement  and  liberality 
of  sentiment  is  acquired  by  the  study  of  the  clas- 
sics, which  contributes  more  to  dignity  and  elegance 
of  manners,  and  to  form  the  true  lady,  than  all  the 
substituted  ornaments  of  external  graces.  The 
brilliancy  of  a  cultivated  mind  will  shine  through 
the  most  ungraceful  exterior,  and  give  an  intellec- 
tual beauty  to  the  plainest  features,  more  pleasing 
than  the  vivid  tints  of  the  rose,  and  more  enduring 
than  the  fading  hue  of  the  lily.  There  is  nothing 
which  gives  to  beauty  a  greater  finish  than  the 
look  of  intelligence  which  makes  the  eye  appear  as 
the  index  of  the  soul ;  and  without  that  charm  there 
is  little  permanent  satisfaction  in  the  mere  brilliancy 
of  the  eye,  or  in  the  most  exquisitely  moulded 
features.  When  we  look  upon  an  inanimate  coun- 
tenance, we  feel  much  as  we  do  when  we  gaze  at 
a  finely  chiselled  statue  ;  we  consider  it  beautiful 
indeed,  but  the  soul  is  wanting. 

Personal  beauty  is  indeed  a  pleasing  and  a  val- 
uable gift,  but  it  is  surely  an  unworthy  and  de- 
grading idea  of  that  sex  which  was  created  for  the 
solace  and  comfort  of  mankind,  to  consider  them 
merely  as  objects  of  sight.  But  beauty  blended 


20       WOMAN  THE  GREATEST  SOCIAL  GIFT  TO  MAN. 

with  virtue  and  intelligence,  is  the  highest  perfec- 
tion of  woman.  Milton's  description  of  Eve  is  a 
beautiful  illustration  of  this  truth.  It  was  not  her 
form  and  features,  but  the  qualities  of  her  mind 
which  shone  in  them,  that  adorned  her  with  the 
perfection  of  beauty. 

"  Grace  was  in  all  her  steps  ;  heaven  in  her  eye  ; 
In  all  her  gestures,  dignity  and  love." 

When  the  judgment  has  been  disciplined  by 
thought,  and  the  taste  refined  by  cultivation,  the 
morat  feelings,  as  a  natural  consequence,  will  be 
rendered  more  acute,  and  the  moral  principles 
strengthened.  Thus  will  she  be  fitted  as  a  com- 
panion for  man,  exerting  a  most  benign  influence 
upon  his  social  character,  and  fitted  as  a  mother  to 
train  Up  and  educate  her  children.  Man  is  not  only 
influenced  by  woman,  but  he  is  ready  and  willing 
to  be  influenced  by  her. 

**  0  thou,  by  Heaven  ordained  to  be 
Arbitress  of  man's  destiny, 
t"rom  thy  warm  heart  one  tender  sigh, 
One  glance  from  thine  approving  eye, 
Can  raise  or  bend  him  at  thy  will 
To  virtue's  noblest  nights,  or  worst  extremes  of  ill ! 

41  Woman,  'tis  thine  to  cleanse  his  heart 
t"rom  every  gross,  unholy  part ; 
Thine,  in  domestic  solitude, 
To  win  him  to  be  wise  and  good  ; 
Jlis  pattern,  guide,  and  friend  to  be, 
To  give  him  back  the  heaven  he  forfeited  for  thee." 


WOMAN    THE    GREATEST    SOCIAL    GIFT    TO    MAN.         21 

The  cultivation  of  the  lighter  accomplishments, 
besides  giving  a  finish  to  the  mind  and  manners, 
affords  a  relaxation  and  a  salutary  diversion  from 
the  busy  cares  of  life,  and  to  woman  with  a  mind 
well  disciplined,  they  will  create  and  strengthen  a 
love  of  home  and  domestic  enjoyments  ;  they  will 
give  her  unrivalled  power  over  the  hearts  and  char- 
acters of  those  she  loves,  by  enabling  her  to  invest 
her  home  with  peculiar  charms.  There  is  scarcely 
any  thing  more  lovely  than  a  female  possessed  of 
these  qualifications,  combined  with  amiable  man- 
ners :  as  a  wife,  she  will  insure  the  love  and  hap- 
piness of  her  husband  ;  as  a  mother,  she  will  set  a 
most  praiseworthy  example  ;  and  as  the  mistress  of 
a  family,  she  will  command  the  respect  and  ad- 
miration of  all  who  come  within  the  range  of  her 
influence. 

It  is  then  a  scrupulous  attention  to  the  moral  and 
intellectual  culture  which  gives  to  woman  the 
power  of  rendering  herself  useful  and  agreeable  in 
all  the  relations  of  life,  as  daughter,  sister,  wife, 
and  mother.  Woman  thus  endowed  may  with 
propriety  be  considered  as  the  greatest  social  gift 
to  man. 


22  TO   AMANDA. 


TO  AMANDA. 


SWEET  lady,  wilt  thou  think  of  me 

When  music's  tones  are  round  thee  thrilling, 
With  a  soft-gushing  melody, 

Thy  gentle  heart  with  rapture  filling  ? 
O,  let  my  voice,  like  that  loved  strain, 

Touch  in  thy  heart  the  chords  of  feeling, 
Like  long-hushed  music,  breathed  again 

By  zephyrs,  o'er  a  wind-harp  stealing. 

Sweet  lady,  wilt  thou  think  of  me 

When  Friendship's  flowers  are  round  thee  wreathing, 
And  Love's  delicious  flatteries 

Within  thy  ear  are  softly  breathing  ? 
O,  let  my  friendship  in  the  wreath, 

Though  but  a  bud  amid  the  flowers, 
Its  sweetest  fragrance  round  thee  breathe, — 

'Twill  serve  to  soothe  thy  weary  hours. 

Sweet  lady,  wilt  thou  think  of  me  ? 

Ah!  should  we  e'er  by  fate  be  parted, 
Wilt  thou  embalm  my  memory, 

The  memory  of  the  loving-hearted  ? 
O,  let  our  spirits  then  unite, 

Each  silent  eve,  in  sweet  communion ; 
Our  thoughts  will  mingle  in  their  flight, 

And  Heaven  will  bless  the  secret  union. 


—  =@ 

GENTLE    WORDS.  23 


GENTLE  WORDS. 


A  YOUNG  rose  in  the  summer  time 

Is  beautiful  to  me, 
And  glorious  the  many  stars 

That  glimmer  on  the  sea ; 
But  gentle  words,  and  loving  hearts, 

And  hands  to  clasp  my  own, 
Are  better  than  the  brightest  flowers 

Or  stars  that  ever  shone  ! 

The  sun  may  warm  the  grass  to  life, 

The  dew  the  drooping  flower, 
And  eyes  grow  bright  that  watch  the  light 

Of  autumn's  opening  hour; 
But  words  that  breathe  of  tenderness, 

And  hearts  we  know  are  true, 
Are  warmer  than  the  summer  time, 

And  brighter  than  the  dew. 

It  is  not  much  the  world  can  give, 

With  all  its  subtle  art, 
And  gold  and  gems  are  not  the  things 

To  satisfy  the  heart ; 
But  O,  if  those  who  cluster  round 

The  altar  and  the  hearth, 
Have  gentle  words  and  loving  smiles, 

How  beautiful  is  earth  ! 


24  MARRIAGE. A    GEM. 


MARRIAGE. 

IT  is  most  genial  to  a  soul  refined 

When  love  can  smile,  unblushing,  unconcealed  ; 
When  mutual  thoughts,  and  words,  and  acts  are  kind, 

And  inmost  hopes  and  feelings  are  revealed  ; 
When  interest,  duty,  trust,  together  bind, 

And  the  heart's  deep  affections  are  unsealed ; 
When  for  each  other  live  the  kindred  pair  : 

Here  is  indeed  a  picture  passing  fair  ! 

Hail,  happy  state  !  which  few  have  heart  to  sing, 

Because  they  feel  how  faintly  words  express 
So  kind,  and  dear,  and  chaste,  and  sweet  a  thing 

As  tried  affection's  lasting  tenderness. 
Yet  stop,  my  venturous  muse,  and  fold  thy  wing, 

Nor  to  a  shrine  so  sacred  rudely  press  ; 
For,  marriage,  thine  is  still  a  silent  boast, 

"  Like  beauty  unadorned,  adorned  the  most." 


A  GEM. 

THERE'S  not  a  heart,  however  rude, 

But  hath  some  little  flower 
To  brighten  up  its  solitude, 

And  scent  the  evening  hour  ; 
There's  not  a  heart,  however  cast 

By  grief  and  sorrow  down, 
But  hath  some  memory  of  the  past, 

To  love  and  call  its  own. 


@ —  —  — 

I    WOULD    BE    THINE.  25 


I  WOULD  BE  THINE. 


I  WOULD  be  thine  when  morning  breaks 

On  my  enraptured  view  ; 
When  every  star  her  tower  forsakes, 
And  every  tuneful  bird  awakes, 

And  bids  the  night  adieu. 
I  would  be  thine  when  Phoebus  speeds 

His  chariot  up  the  sky, 
Or  on  the  heel  of  night  he  treads, 
And  through  the  heavens  refulgence  spreads  ; 

Thine  would  I  live  or  die. 
I  would  be  thine,  thou  fairest  one, 

And  hold  thee  as  my  boon  ; 
When  full  the  morning's  race  is  run, 
And  half  the  fleeting  day  is  gone, 

Thine  let  me  rest  at  noon. 
I  would  be  thine  when  evening's  veil. 

O'ermantles  all  the  plain, 
When  Cynthia  smiles  on  every  dale, 
And  spreads,  like  thee,  her  nightly  sail 

To  dim  the  starry  train. 
Let  me  be  thine,  although  I  take 

My  exit  from  this  world  ; 
And  when  the  heavens  with  thunder  shake, 
And  all  the  wheels  of  time  shall  break, 

With  globes  to  nothing  hurled, 
I  would  be  thine. 


26  A    DRESSY    WOMAN. 


A  DRESSY  WOMAN. 


START  not,  gentle  reader  —  fair  reader.  I  am 
not  going  to  lecture  thee  on  the  vanity  of  arraying 
thine  outward  man  or  woman  in  the  garments  of 
the  gay  and  worldly.  There  is,  no  doubt,  enough 
and  too  much  of  this  in  the  world  ;  but  my  aim, 
just  now,  is  not  a  bird  of  this  feather.  Perhaps 
thou  and  I  will  agree  —  perhaps  not.  Nevertheless, 
I  shall  tell  thee  my  thoughts  on  the  matter  before 
us,  most  honestly,  whether  thou  shall  chance  to 
like  them  or  not.  What  I  shall  say  may  seem  to 
have  a  special  bearing  on  the  fairer  part  of  human 
kind  ;  but  such  a  reference  is  only  a  matter  of  con- 
venience ;  I  intend  not  thereby  to  exclude  mankind 
from  the  benefit  of  my  observations. 

I  shall  begin  (the  second  time)  by  saying  that  I 
always  love  to  look  upon  a  well-dressed  woman; 
and  who  does  not?  unless  it  be  some  miserly  cur- 
mudgeon, to  whom  the  rustle  of  a  new  bank  note 
is  vastly  more  pleasing  than  that  of  silks  and  satins 
—  the  only  music  for  his  ear  —  though  indeed  your 
bank  note  rustle  hath  a  pleasant  note  in  it,  a  music 
that  goes  to  the  heart  sometimes  —  most  notable 

'-  -(o) 


A    DRESSY   WOMAN.  27 


music  truly ;  but  this  is  a  digression  ;  or  unless  it 
be  some  very  sour  religionist,  in  whom  what  little 
perception  of  the  beautiful  God  had  given  him 
has  long  ago  been  crushed  ;  who  strives  to  set  reli- 
gion and  good  taste  by  the  ears,  and  would  make 
those  fall  out  by  the  way  who  should  walk  lov- 
ingly together.  Such  may  affect  to  decry  any 
special  attention  to  the  covering  of  the  outward 
man,  and  may  seem  horrified  at  the  idea  of  adorn- 
ing it.  "  The  inward  man,"  they  say.  "  is  the 
great  thing  to  be  cared  for."  True  enough,  no 
doubt.  But  then,  as  a  general  thing,  I  have  never 
seen  the  souls  of  such  people  to  be  any  better 
dressed  tHan  their  bodies.  The  ornament  of  a  meek 
and  quiet  spirit  has  been  wanting  quite  as  often  as 
those  which  are  of  less  price.  Now,  by  "well 
dressed,"  I  do  not  mean  bejewelled,  besilked,  be- 
laced,  or  befeathered.  "  Well  dressed  "  may  exist 
without  any  of  these.  It  may  be  found  in  calico, 
in  gingham,  or  in  check,  in  a  cottage  as  well  as  in 
a  palace.  A  well  cut,  prettily  colored,  entirely  put 
on,  and  tidily  kept  garment  —  this  is  "  well  dressed," 
and  this  may  be  attained  with  almost  any  material. 
The  richest  silks  on  earth,  the  most  gorgeous  dyes, 
the  most  resplendent  jewels,  will  not  of  necessity 
make  a  well-dressed  woman.  No  ;  good  taste  may 
be  wanting  after  all  —  a  spirit  of  order,  of  harmo- 
nious arrangement,  possessed  of  an  instinctive 
power  in  detecting  incongruities,  and  of  discerning 
the  little  proprieties  which  go  to  make  up  a  well- 


MS  A    DRESSY    WOMAN. 


dressed  person.  As  you  have  looked  out  upon  this 
fair  earth,  have  you  not  often  thought,  How  glori- 
ously is  nature  dressed!  The  Divine  Clothier  — 
I  speak  it  reverently  —  how  doth  He  clothe  the 
grass  of  the  field  !  how  doth  He  deck  the  lily  of 
the  valley  !  Solomon  was  gorgeously  arrayed,  no 
doubt,  but  not  as  one  of  these.  And  the  trees  with 
their  rich  foliage,  the  birds  with  their  heaven- 
dyed  dresses  of  plumes,  and  the  beasts  in  their 
coats  of  skin  so  fitted  and  so  put  on  —  ah,  here  is 
clothing  for  you.  Hast  thou  ever  noticed  the 
morning  dress  of  nature  ?  The  clouds  are  decked 
in  all  gay  and  fantastic  humors,  and  the  bosom  of 
the  earth  is  gemmed  with  dew-drops — Diamonds 
truly  of  the  first  water.  Every  thing  smiles  around 
you.  'Tis  a  sight  worth  the  seeing.  And  then, 
too,  in  her  evening  dress.  The  gildings,  the  bur- 
nishings,  the  sparkling  gems  are  laid  aside.  She  is 
clad  in  twilight's  gray  and  sober  livery,  as  our 
divine  poet  sings.  The  curtains  of  darkness  are 
drawn  around  her,  she  retires  from  our  sight,  as  it 
were,  to  rest  till  the  light  of  another  day  shall 
awake  her  from  her  slumbers.  Thus  is  nature 
beautifully,  appropriately  apparelled  ;  and  why  shall 
not  thou  and  I  dress  as  well  as  we  may  ?  Where 
is  the  harm  in  it,  if  we  take  some  pains  to  have 
our  clothes  well  made,  of  good  materials,  and  well 
put  on  ?  Our  first  parents'  first  suit  was,  we  are 
told,  of  skins.  Now,  it  is  by  no  means  clear  that 
they  were  rough  and  shaggy  skins,  as  some  would 


A    DRESSY    WOMAN.  29 


have  us  believe.  Only  fancy  beauteous  Eve  in 
such  a  dress ;  in  some  shaggy  bear-skin,  or  some 
woolly  sheep-skin !  The  association  is  horrible. 
These  coats  of  skin  may  have  been  of  quite  re- 
fined material  ;  perchance  some  fabric  made  of  the 
skin  or  bark  of  some  tree.  He  who  had  decked 
Eden  for  them  doubtless  now  clothed  them  be- 
comingly and  tastefully.  Why  not  ?  He  maketh 
every  thing  beautiful.  I  can  as  easily  believe  this 
as  the  contrary.  There  has  always  seemed  to  me 
a  sort  of  naturalness  about  a  well-dressed  woman 
— just  as  though  she  were  made  for  it.  She 
appears  as  much  in  her  place,  as  a  rose  in  a  garden, 
as  a  part<*f  the  constitution  of  things.  The  Graces 
forbid  that  we  should  think  any  the  less  of  one 
who  is  scrupulously  attentive  to  her  personal  ap- 
pearance, earnestly  striving  to  render  it  as  pleasing 
to  her  best  friends  as  possible.  And  suppose  she 
wear  a  few  ornaments.  What  then  ?  If  judi- 
ciously chosen,  so  much  the  better.  I  enjoy  a  few 
modest  flowers  in  the  bonnet,  a  ring  on  the  hand, 
and,  it  may  be,  a  neat  and  pretty  brooch  —  not 
indeed  so  large  as  to  remind  one  of  the  shield  of 
Norval,  (shield  us  from  such,)  but  of  moderate 
dimensions.  In  all  this,  she  appears  to  be  fulfilling 
a  part  of  her  mission  to  this  world.  Was  she  not 
sent  to  aid  in  the  adorning  of  it  ?  For  the  uttering 
of  such  sentiments  as  these,  I  may  be  considered 
by  some  as  no  better  than  one  of  the  world.  I  am 
content.  Some  powerful  declamation  at  church  I 

3» 


30  A    DRESSY    WOMAN. 


have  heard  on  this  subject ;  yet,  notwithstanding  the 
eloquence  of  the  preacher,  and  his  solemn  warnings. 
I  could  not,  for  the  life  of  me,  refrain  from  dwelling 
with  some  degree  of  complacency  on  the  prettily 
attired  forms  around  me  ;  and  I  have  sometimes 
thought  that  the  good  man  himself,  as  his  eye  has 
rested  upon  them,  felt  half  inclined  to  take  another 
text,  and  hold  forth  on  the  other  side.  One  of  the 
cloth  (a  good  man  he  was)  1  well  remember.  His 
wife  was  one  of  the  best  dressed  women  in  the 
parish,  setting  in  this,  as  I  thought,  a  wholesome 
example  to  all  careless  and  slovenly  wives.  The 
good  man  (peace  to  him)  was  by  no  means  deficient 
in  the  duty  of  touching  up  the  gay  members  of  his 
congregation  upon  the  danger  of  too  much  atten- 
tion to  outward  adornments,  yet  (to  let  you  into  a 
secret)  he  always  seemed  well  pleased  with  the 
appearance  of  his  wife.  Some  of  the  more  cen- 
sorious among  us  did  indeed  intimate  that  she  was 
not  quite  spiritual  enough,  and  a  little  too  much 
devoted  to  the  merely  outward.  But  there  are  ill- 
natured  people  every  where.  If  she  was  a  little 
fond  of  dress,  she  was  none  the  worse  for  it.  If 
fault  it  is,  it  is  rather  an  amiable  one  —  nay,  a  very 
virtue,  if  there  be  not  too  much  of  it.  (This  on 
the  principle  that  too  much  of  a  good  thing  is  good, 
for  nothing.)  If  fault  it  is,  it  made  her  appear  very 
lovely;  and  as  to  her  spirituality,  all  I  can  say  is, 
that  the  spirit  of  neatness  reigned  over  her  person  ; 
tiie  spirit  of  order  in  her  house  ;  the  spirit  of  a  lady 


A    DRESSY   WOMAN.  31 

in  her  manners  ;  the  spirit  of  charity  in  her  inter- 
course with  others  ;  the  spirit  of  prudence  in  her 
domestic  economy  ;  the  spirit  of  meekness  under 
trying  provocations;  and  the  spirit  of  contentment 
in  connection  with  her  Jot.  This  sort  of  spiritu- 
ality is  worth  a  great  deal  more  than  much  that 
goes  by  that  name.  If  what  is  often  called  spiritu- 
ality is  made  an  excuse  for  untidiness,  slovenliness, 
—  if  it  opposes  itself  to  care  for  one's  personal  ap- 
pearance, to  a  proper  taste  in  one's  dress,  —  I  shall  at 
once  dispute  its  heavenly  origin,  and  consider  it 
but  as  an  interloper  among  the  Christian  graces  — 
a  daw  in  borrowed  feathers. 

Being  myself  in  the  body,  and  the  souls  of  others 
here  in  this  world  being  in  the  body,  I  must  needs 
have  much  to  do  with  bodies.  As  I  come  in  con- 
tact with  them  constantly,  and  with  some  of  them 
closely,  it  is  a  matter  of  some  importance  to  me  in 
what  condition  they  may  happen  to  be.  One  could 
hardly  consent  to  have  them  neglected  for  the  sake 
of  (so called)  intelectnal culture.  An  intelectualist!! 
Anintelectual — sloven  !  What  an  unrighteous  asso- 
ciation ! 

Truly,  a  dressy  woman  (as  the  phrase  goes)  is 
better  than  a  slattern.  There  may  be  something 
positively  pleasing  about  the  former.  About  the 
latter,  there  is  something  positively  disgusting.  If 
she  possess  beauty  of  face,  the  pleasure  of  looking 
upon  it  is  neutralized  by  the  untidiness  of  her  ap- 
parel ;  whereas  plain  or  even  homely  features  are 

I  @ 


32  A    DRESSY    WOMAN. 


somewhat  redeemed  by  a  well-chosen  and  well- 
fitted  dress.  A  dressy  wife  may  cost  you  a  few 
extra  dollars  per  annum  ;  but  then  she  has  some- 
thing to  show  for  it,  and  in  spite  of  the  drain  upon 
your  pocket,  you  will  be  pleased.  You  will  be 
indemnified  in  part,  at  least,  for  the  bleeding  of 
your  purse,  by  the  consideration  that  your  better 
half  will  not  be  likely  to  subject  you  to  mortifi- 
cation on  account  of  her  appearance.  Here,  then, 
is  something  in  the  shape  of  value  received  ;  not  a 
receipt  in  full  of  all  demands,  it  may  be,  but  a  sort 
of  compounding  —  some  few  shillings  in  the  pound. 
I  must  back  again  to  the  parson's  wife  —  blessings 
on  her.  The  most  determined  grumblers  in  the 
parish  always  admitted,  that  if  she  was  somewhat 
given  to  the  ways  of  the  world  in  the  matter  of 
her  dress,  yet  her  house  was  a  very  model  of  neat- 
ness. "  Every  thing,"  said  they,  "  is  in  perfect 
order  from  garret  to  cellar  ;  to  do  her  justice,"  (they 
had  no  sense  of  justice,)  "like  wax-work,  and  her 
children  always  look  well."  Now,  have  you  not 
noticed  that  they  who  are  a  little  fond  of  dress  — 
something  tasteful  as  to  cut  and  color,  neat  and 
trim — are  generally  the  best  housekeepers  ?  And  no 
great  marvel.  She  who  studies  neatness,  order, 
and  beauty  in  her  apparel,  will  be  likely  to  study 
them  in  connection  with  the  affairs  of  her  house- 
hold. A  sort  of  elegance  will  reign  throughout 
her  abode,  even  as  there  does  over  her  person. 
A  woman  possessing  a  genuine  taste  as  to  mat- 


-(£) 


A   DRESSY    WOMAN.  33 


ters  of  dress,  is  always  well  dressed ;  not  only 
when  she  "  goes  out,"  but  at  home.  She  evidently 
seems  to  have  an  idea  of  this  kind,  that  her  hus- 
band (if  she  is  blessed  with  one)  has  some  small 
claim  upon  her  efforts  to  please.  She  would  appear 
well  in  his  eyes  and  in  her  own.  Alas !  alas !  when 
a  wife  begins  to  say  within  herself,  "  'Tis  only  hus- 
band." Ah!  yes,  'tis  truly  only  he  whom  thou 
shouldst  be  most  solicitous  to  please.  Wilt  thou 
say,  "  'Tis  but  a  small  thing — a  mere  matter  of 
dress  —  why  should  he  care  ?  "  My  mistaken 
friend,  dost  thou  not  know  that  life  is  made  up 
mostly  of  small  things?  —  in-door  life,  at  least, — 
domestic  life  —  thy  life.  Dost  thou  not  know  that 
the  small  things  of  life  are  the  hinges  whereon  the 
great  ones  turn  ?  Put  not  off  the  matter  thus. 
On  this  small  hinge  (dress)  may  turn  the  great 
matter  of  thy  husband's  domestic  peace  and  com- 
fort. Didst  thou  do  thus  when  he  wooed  thee  ? 
Didst  thou  say,  "  'Tis  only  he  "  ?  Let  thy  mem- 
ory answer.  What  tales  thy  glass  could  tell  of 
those  times  !  And  you,  my  friend,  the  husband,  if 
you  have  a  wife,  a  woman  of  taste,  of  refinement, 
consider  it,  I  beseech  you.  Do  you  say,  "  'Tis 
only  she  "  ?  This  was  not  so  in  the  days  of  court- 
ship. What  a  sprucing  up  of  yourself!  No  un- 
shaved  chin  then.  No  unwashed  hands,  no  un- 
cleanly raiment  then.  Why  not  always  seek  to 
appear  well  in  each  other's  eyes  ?  Is  the  market 
made  ?  Will  affection  and  respect  now  take  care 


34  A   DRESSY   WOMAN. 


of  themselves  ?  Does  marriage  change  the  nature 
and  the  means  of  love  ?  Does  it  make  a  man  fond 
of  a  slattern,  or  a  woman  fond  of  a  sloven  ?  Did 
the  lover  admire  order  and  neatness,  and  has  the 
wife  or  husband  fallen  in  love  with  disorder?  It 
is  a  great  mistake,  my  friends,  a  great  mistake. 

I  have  read  somewhere  of  a  people  who  are 
accustomed  to  wear  their  best  clothes  at  home.  If 
this  custom  were  adopted  among  ourselves,  what  a 
different  aspect  it  would  impart  to  some  households  ! 
We  might  appear  rather  indifferent,  perhaps,  abroad. 
Our  old  duds  might  give  rather  a  strange  look  to 
our  streets ;  but  then,  all  these  would  be  laid  aside 
the  moment  we  entered  our  own  doors.  We  should 
don  "  our  best,"  and  sit  down  at  our  firesides  pleased 
with  ourselves  and  with  each  other.  The  tempta- 
tion, too,  to  go  abroad  would  be  less,  and  thus  it 
would  be  more  easy  to  comply  with  the  apostolic 
precept,  to  be  "  keepers  at  home."  Home  would 
then  keep  us.  I  bethink  me  now  of  another  apos- 
tolic precept,  which  seems  to  discourage  attention 
to  dress.  It  speaks  slightingly  of  the  braiding  of 
hair,  and  the  putting  on  of  apparel,  and  commends 
the  ornament  of  a  meek  and  quiet  spirit.  Think 
you  that  Peter  seriously  meant  that  a  woman  should 
never  braid  her  hair,  should  never  literally  put  on 
apparel  ?  Mercy  save  us  ;  no,  not  this  last,  surely. 
What,  then,  does  he  mean  ?  I  think  it  must  be  an 
excessive  fondness  for  dress  —  that's  all.  If  we 
dress  according  to  the  analogy  of  nature,  (as  Butler 


A   DRESSY   WOMAN  35 


has  it,)  we  shall  dress  as  well  as  we  can,  according 
to  our  condition  in  life.  He  who  has  clothed  the 
earth  so  beautifully,  and  has  given  us  to  perceive 
and  enjoy  it,  can  never  have  intended  that  we 
should  not  bring  into  exercise,  in  connection  with 
the  clothing  of  ourselves,  the  perception  ot  the 
beautiful  implanted  in  our  natures.  It  must  be  a 
strange  taste  which  prefers  the  untasteful  for  its 
own  sake.  It  is  not  natural.  Leave  people  to  their 
choice,  and  ninety-nine  out  of  a  hundred  will 
choose  as  an  associate,  other  things  being  equal,  the 
best  (in  the  best  sense  of  the  word)  dressed  person. 
If  I  were  to  put  another  petition  in  the  prayer  book, 
it  should  be  somewhat  as  follows  :  From  all  slat- 
terns, from  all  slovens,  Good  Lord,  deliver  us ! 


36  HOME. 


HOME. 


THERE  is  a  land,  of  every  land  the  pride, 
Beloved  of  Heaven  o'er  all  the  world  beside, 
Where  brighter  suns  dispense  serener  light, 
And  milder  moons  imparadise  the  night  — 
A  land  of  beauty,  virtue,  valor,  truth, 
Time-tutored  age,  and  love-exalted  youth. 
The  wandering  mariner,  whose  eye  explores 
The  wealthiest  isles,  the  most  enchanting  shores, 
Views  not  a  realm  so  beautiful  and  fair, 
Nor  breathes  the  spirit  of  a  purer  air. 
In  every  clime,  the  magnet  of  his  soul, 
Touched  by  remembrance,  trembles  to  that  pole  ; 
For  in  this  land  of  Heaven's  peculiar  grace, 
The  heritage  of  nature's  noblest  race, 
There  is  a  spot  of  earth  supremely  blest, 
A  dearer,  sweeter  spot  than  all  the  rest, 
Where  man,  creation's  tyrant,  casts  aside 
His  sword  and  sceptre,  pageantry  and  pride, 
While  in  his  softened  looks  benignly  blend 
The  sire,  the  son,  the  husband,  brother,  friend. 
Here  woman  reigns ;  the  mother,  daughter,  wife, 
Strews  with  fresh  flowers  the  narrow  way  of  life  ; 
In  the  clear  heaven  of  her  delighted  eye, 
An  angel  guard  of  loves  and  graces  lie  ; 
Around  her  knees  domestic  duties  meet, 
And  fireside  pleasures  gambol  at  her  feet. 


SWEET   ANNIE    FAY.  '         37 

Where  shall  that  land,  that  spot  of  earth  be  found  ? 
Art  thou  a  man  ?  —  a  patriot  ?     Look  around. 
O,  thou  shalt  find,  howe'er  thy  footsteps  roam, 
That  land  thy  country,  and  that  spot  thy  home ! 


SWEET  ANNIE  FAY. 


THE  pride  of  the  village  was  sweet  Annie  Fay, 
So  winsome  and  winning,  so  gladsome  and  gay  ; 
She  ruled  all  the  swains  by  her  beauty's  bright  sway, 
And  won  hearts  by  dozens  to  throw  them  away. 

This  could  not  last  always  :  young  Love  flitted  by, 
And  shone  in  the  glance  of  Willie's  dark  eye  ; 
He  aimed  at  sweet  Annie,  and  barbed  was  the  dart, 
And  fatal  the  power  that  pierced  her  young  heart. 

Young  Willie  was  missing  one  morning  in  June, 
The  month  of  all  others  when  hearts  play  in  tune, 
When  hopeful  affection  the  soft  bosom  fills, 
Aud  mutual  confession  with  happiness  thrills. 

He  could  not  be  found ;  and  rumor  had  said 
He  was  jilted  by  Annie  for  rich  Squire  Ned. 
And  where  was  our  Annie  ?  The  fond  one  had  flown 
With  her  Willie  from  church  to  a  cot  of  their  own. 


38  TO   A    SISTER. 


TO   A  SISTER. 


YES,  dear  one,  to  the  envied  train 

Of  those  around  thy  homage  pay ; 
But  wilt  thou  never  kindly  deign 

To  think  of  him  that's  far  away  ? 
Thy  form,  thine  eye,  thine  angel  smile 

For  many  years  I  may  not  see  ; 
But  wilt  thou  not,  sometimes  the  while, 

My  sister  dear,  remember  me  ? 

But  not  in  fashion's  brilliant  hall, 

Surrounded  by  the  gay  and  fair, 
And  thou  the  fairest  of  them  all  — 

O,  think  not,  think  not  of  me  there ; 
But  when  the  thoughtless  crowd  is  gone, 

And  hushed  the  voice  of  senseless  glee, 
And  all'is  silent,  still,  and  lone, 

And  thou  art  sad,  remember  me. 

Remember  me  —  but,  loveliest,  ne'er 

When,  in  his  orbit  fair  and  high, 
The  morning's  glowing  charioteer 

Rides  proudly  up  the  blushing  sky  ; 
But  when  the  waning  moonbeam  sleeps 

At  moonlight  on  that  lonely  lea, 
And  Nature's  pensive  spirit  weeps, 

And  all  her  dews,  remember  me. 


©= 


TO   A    SISTER.  39 


Remember  me,  I  pray —  but  not 

In  Flora's  gay  and  blooming  hour, 
When  every  brake  hath  found  its  mate, 

And  sunshine  smiles  in  every  flower  ; 
But  when  the  fallen  leaf  is  sear, 

And  withers  sadly  from  the  tree, 
And  o'er  the  ruins  of  the  year, 

Cold  autumn  weeps,  remember  me. 

Remember  me  — but  choose  not,  dear, 

The  hour  when,  on  the  gentle  lake, 
The  sportive  wavelets,  blue  and  clear, 

Soft  rippling  to  the  margin,  break  ; 
But  when  the  deafening  billows  foam 

In  madness  o'er  the  pathless  sea, 
Then  let  thy  pilgrim  fancy  roam 

Across  them,  and  remember  me. 

Remember  me  —  but  not  to  join, 

If  haply  some  thy  friends  should  praise ; 
'Tis  far  too  dear,  that  voice  of  thine, 

To  echo  what  the  stranger  says. 
They  know  us  not  —  but  shouldst  thou  meet 

Some  faithful  friend  of  me  and  thee, 
Softly,  sometimes,  to  him  repeat 

My  name,  and  then  remember  me. 

Remember  me  —  not,  I  entreat, 
In  scenes  of  festal  week-day  joy, 

For  then  it  were  not  kind  or  meet 

That  thought  thy  pleasure  should  alloy  ; 


©-  = 

40  A   TOKEN. 

But  on  the  sacred,  solemn  day, 
And,  dearest,  on  thy  bended  knee, 

When  thou  for  those  thou  lov'st  dost  pray, 
Sweet  spirit,  then  remember  me. 

Kemember  me  —  but  not  as  I 

On  thee  forever,  ever  dwell, 
With  anxious  heart  and  drooping  eye, 

And  doubts  'twould  grieve  thee  should  I  tell ! 
But  in  thy  calm,  unclouded  heart, 

Which  dark  and  gloomy  visions  flee, 
O,  there,  my  sister,  be  my  part, 

And  kindly  there  remember  me. 


A  TOKEN, 


So  take  my  gift !  'Tis  a  simple  flower ; 
But  perhaps  'twill  wile  a  weary  hour ; 
And  the  spirit  that  its  light  magic  weaves 
May  touch  your  heart  from  its  simple  leaves ; 
And  if  these  should  fail,  it  at  least  will  be 
A  token  of  love  from  me  to  thee. 


ECONOMY   AND   HER   DAUGHTER.  41 


ECONOMY  AND  HER  DAUGHTER. 


IN  a  pleasant  but  plainly  furnished  apartment  sat 
Economy  and  her  daughter.  The  daughter  had 
just  handed  her  mother  a  bundle  of  cloth,  when 
they  were  interrupted  by  the  ringing  of  the  door 
bell.  Economy  laid  by  the  package,  and  hastened 
to  open  the  door. 

"  Good  morning,  Mrs.  Thrifty,"  said  she ;  "  walk 
in.  My  daughter  Benevolence,  Mrs.  Thrifty," 
added  she,  introducing  them. 

"  What,  Benevolence  the  daughter  of  Econo- 
my !  "  thought  Mrs.  Thrifty ;  but  she  concealed  her 
surprise  at  the  information,  and  remarked,  "  You 
have  been  making  quite  a  recluse  of  your  daughter 
since  you  came  to  Boston,  have  you  not  ?  I  was 
not  aware  of  her  being  with  you." 

"  True,"  replied  Economy,  "  she  has  not,  as  yet, 
visited  much  in  this  place  ;  she  is  rather  diffident, 
and  prefers  that  I  should  become  acquainted  with 
the  people  before  she  is  introduced  to  them.  She 
often  remarks  that  she  is  most  cordially  received  by 
those  who  are  the  friends  of  her  mother." 

"  If  that  is  the  case,  she  may  rest  assured  of 
receiving  a  cordial  welcome,  if  she  will  honor  me 


42  ECONOMY  AND  HER  DAUGHTER. 

with  a  call,"  said  Mrs.  Thrifty  ;  "  but,"  she  added, 
"  I  fear  you  will  find  me  rather  a  troublesome  friend, 
for  I  have  called  again  to  consult  you  on  some 
domestic  affairs." 

"  I  shall  be  most  happy  to  assist  you,"  replied 
Economy  ;  "  you  know  counselling  is  a  part  of  my 
occupation."  i 

Mrs.  Thrifty  then  proceeded  to  inform  her  that 
she  was  about  furnishing  another  parlor,  and  that 
Lady  Extravagance  had  told  her  that  Brussels  car- 
pets were  the  only  ones  fit  for  use,  arid  that  a  centre 
table,  and  an  astral  lamp,  and  a  piano  were  absolutely 
indispensable.  "  When  I  told  her,"  added  Mrs. 
Thrifty,  "  that  I  had  no  daughters  to  use  the  piano, 
she  remarked  that  she  did  not  suppose  I  furnished 
the  parlor  for  myself,  and  that  my  visitors  would 
think  me  destitute  of  musical  taste  if  I  did  not 
keep  at  least  one  musical  instrument.  All  this 
would  do  very  well,"  continued"  Mrs.  Thrifty,  "  if 
my  means  would  warrant  the  expense.  To  be  sure 
I  have  laid  by  a  large  sum,  which  Lady  Extrav- 
agance said  I  might  devote  to  that  purpose ;  but 
THAT  I  was  intending  to  give  an  orphan  niece  of 
mine,  who  is  very  destitute." 

"  O,  clothe  the  orphan  !  "  said  Benevolence,  "and 
let  the  parlor  wear  a  less  splendid  dress.  Her  grat- 
itude will  be  sweeter  to  you  than  the  sweetest 
music  ever  drawn  from  the  keys  of  a  piano." 

"  An  approving  conscience,"  said  Economy,  "  is 
preferable  to  all  the  eulogies  of  Fashion ;  besides,  I 


ECONOMY    AND   HER    DAUGHTER.  43 

maintain  that  a  company  of  guests  can  be  very 
agreeably  entertained  without  the  aid  of  instru- 
mental music." 

Mrs.  Thrifty  concluded  that  the  needless  furni- 
ture should  be  dispensed  with,  and  the  orphan  pro- 
vided for.  After  Mrs.  Thrifty's  departure,  Benevo- 
lence again  brought  forward  the  bundle  which  her 
mother  had  laid  down,  and  placed  it  upon  the  table, 
saying,  "  Soon  after  you  went  out,  this  morning,  a 
poor  Avoman  came  in,  who  appeared  to  be  very 
feeble  and  much  emaciated  with  suifering.  She 
informed  me  that  you  had  often  assisted  her ;  but 
that,  notwithstanding  all  your  kindness,  she  and  her 
children  were  still  suffering  from  want  of  clothing 
suitable  for  the  season.  I  thought  this  was  a  favor- 
able time  for  me  to  act ;  so  I  told  her,  as  she  arose 
to  depart,  that  we  should  plan  some  means  to  allevi- 
ate her  wants.  I  then  went  out  and  purchased  this 
flannel,  which  I  well  knew  you  would  assist  me  to 
make  into  garments  for  them." 

"  You  did  perfectly  right,"  answered  her  mother. 
"  I  presume  the  woman  was  Mrs.  Needy,  who  lives 
in  Theatre  Alley.  She  has  a  number  of  children 
to  support,  and  they  have  been  much  afflicted  with 
sickness,  so  that  with  all  her  industry  and  prudence, 
they  are  still  very  poor.  She  is  worthy  of  our  pity, 
and  we  are  well  able  to  help  her." 

The  flannel  was  placed  upon  the  table,  and  while 
Economy  judiciously  arranged  the  patterns  upon  it, 
so  that  nothing  might  be  lost,  she  recounted  to  her 


44  ECONOMY  AND  HER  DAUGHTER. 

daughter  the  results  of  the  morning's  walk.  "  I 
first,"  said  she,  "  called  upon  Mrs.  Housewife,  who 
lives  at  the  head  of  the  street.  She  takes  a  great 
deal  of  pains  to  consult  me ;  but  I  fear  it  is  more 
for  the  NAME  than  any  thing  else,  for  I  have  fre- 
quently seen  her  tables  loaded  with  rich  puddings 
and  cake,  though  she  well  knows  Dr.  Combe  has 
pronounced  them  deleterious  to  health  ;  and  I  have 
often  assured  her  that  the  plainer  kinds  of  food  are 
equally  agreeable  when  one  becomes  accustomed  to 
them.  And  then  she  still  persists  in  using  tea  arid 
coffee,  though  she  allows  that  they  are  very  expen- 
sive, and  not  really  necessary.  In  counting  the 
cost,  however,  she  does  not  begin  to  estimate  the 
expense  that  they  really  occasion  her.  Yet  she 
says,  as  cold  water  is  getting  to  be  fashionable,  she 
supposes  she  shall  be  obliged  to  drink  it,  to  keep  up 
with  the  times.  I  next  called  upon  Miss  Dressy. 
Though  it  was  nearly  ten  o'clock,  she  had  but  just 
arisen,  and  she  was  endeavoring  to  arouse  her  still 
sleepy  ideas,  in  order  to  plan  amusements  for  the 
day,  when  I  entered.  She  tried  to  apologize  for 
her  negligent  appearance,  upon  the  plea  that  the 
ball  of  the  preceding  night  had  very  much  fatigued 
her.  "  And  yet,"  added  she,  "  I  do  not  think  balls 
VERY  injurious,  for  I  do  not  know  but  my  health  is 
as  good  as  that  of  those  who  do  not  attend  them." 
Poor  thing  !  She  never  once  thought  of  the  loss 
of  time  occasioned  by  keeping  late  hours,  or  the 
SIN  of  indulging  in  such  frivolous  pleasures.  I  gave 


ECONOMY   AND   HER    DAUGHTER.  45 


her  Dr.  Alcott's  remarks  upon  late  hours,  which  she 
promised  to  read  ;  but  I  fear  she  will  never  be  pre- 
pared to  receive  YOU  as  a  friend.  I  made  several 
other  calls,  and  saw  ample  room  for  the  labors  of  us 
both.  The  poor  are  suffering  by  hundreds,  while 
those  pickpockets,  Appetite  and  Fashion,  have 
robbed  the  rich  of  all  power  or  wish  to  help  them. 
The  epicure  indulges  himself  at  his  table,  while  the 
poor  slave  who  toiled  for  his  dainties,  and  the  sailor 
who  brought  them,  are  forgotten.  The  lady's  toilet 
groans  beneath  the  weight  of  aromatic  spices,  and 
the  lady  herself  is  adorned  with  jewels  and  gold ; 
but  SHE  cares  not  for  the  soul  of  the  heathen  who 
gathered  them.  Little  does  she  consider  that  the 
blood  of  millions  will  be  required  at  her  hands." 

"  How  my  heart  bleeds  when  I  think  of  the 
mental  and  physical  suffering  of  those  who  are 
without  the  gospel!"  replied  Benevolence.  "It 
seems  as  though  I  must  go  and  teach  them  the  way 
to  peace." 

"  Your  influence  is  more  needed  at  home,"  an- 
swered her  mother.  "  We  must  endeavor  to  instil 
our  principles  into  the  hearts  of  the  people :  and  if, 
by  our  moral  power,  we  can  influence  the  multitude 
to  action,  we  shall  thus  benefit  the  poor  and  needy 
more  than  we  could  in  any  other  way.  We  shall 
be  like  the  '  wheels  within  wheels  '  of  machinery, 
small,  to  be  sure,  and*  almost  concealed  by  the 
larger  parts  ;  but  the  very  main  springs  of  action." 
And  they  DID,  and  are  still  endeavoring  to  per- 

)  =@ 


46  ECONOMY  AND  HER  DAUGHTER. 

form  this  noble  and  mighty  work.  They  have 
preached  and  practised.  Thousands  have  listened 
to  their  heavenly  voices,  and  obeyed  their  sacred 
call  •  but,  ah,  MILLIONS  have  let  their  words  drop 
unheeded !  They  have  scattered  their  precious 
seed  upon  every  path  in  life,  and  though  much  of 
it  has  fallen  upon  good  ground,  and  produced  abun- 
dant fruit,  alas !  more  of  it  has  fallen  upon  thorns 
and  stony  places ;  and  if  perchance  some  of  it  took 
root  and  sprang  up,  some  evil  influence  has  withered 
it  away.  The  rich  are  still  selfish  and  oppressive, 
and  the  poor  are  still  miserably  poor  and  oppressed. 
The  daughters  of  the  rich  man  may  taste  the  de- 
lights that  wisdom  affords  ;  but  the  thousand  poor 
girls,  who  labor  from  early  till  late  for  a  mere  pit- 
tance, must  live  and  die  in  their  ignorance.  So 
Fashion  has  decreed,  and  but  few  have  natural 
strength  of  mind  sufficient  to  break  away  from  HER 
bonds.  We  are  earnestly  longing  for  the  time  to 
come  when  we  shall  not  pay  half  we  earn  for 
expensive  food  that  we  do  not  need,  and  the  other 
half  for  gewgaws  that  do  us  no  good,  but  much 
hurt,  but  when  the  immortal  mind,  now  famishing 
and  tending  to  eternal  death,  will  be  cared  for,  and 
fed,  and  clothed,  and  trained  for  immortal  life  and 
joy.  Loud  is  our  cry  for  help  to  break  the  cramp- 
ing fetters  that  bind  us  down  to  earth  and  vanity, 
that  we  may  rise  above  our  present  state,  and  be, 
not  what  we  now  are,  but  what  immortal  spirits 
may  and  ought  to  be. 

(o) 


THREE    ANGEL-SPIRITS.  47 


THREE  ANGEL-SPIRITS. 


THREE  angel-spirits  walk  the  earth, 

Our  guides  where'er  we  go  ; 
And  where  their  gentle  footsteps  lead, 

There  is  no  human  woe  : 
They  smile  upon  the  cradled  child  — 

They  bless  the  heart  of  youth  — 
And  age  is  mellowed  by  the  touch 

Of  Friendship,  Love,  and  Truth. 

Three  angel-spirits ;  evermore 

They  guard  our  thorny  way, 
And  those  who  follow  where  they  lead 

Can  never  go  astray  ; 
For  God  has  given  them  alike 

To  childhood  and  to  youth, 
And  age  is  mellowed  by  the  touch 

Of  Friendship,  Love,  and  Truth. 


TRUTH  is  a  heavenly  principle  —  a  light 

Whose  beams  will  always  guide  the  willing  right ; 

A  fixed  star  —  a  spotless,  central  sun, 

In  the  mind's  heaven  —  unchangeable  and  one. 


48  FRIENDSHIP,    LOVE,    TRUTH. 


FRIENDSHIP,  LOVE,  TRUTH. 


FRIENDSHIP. 

THERE  is  a  star  that  beams  on  earth, 

With  tender,  lovely  ray ; 
That  lights  the  path  of  generous  worth, 

And  speaks  a  brighter  day. 

LOVE. 

There  is  a  tie,  a  golden  chain, 
That  binds  with  stronger  hand 

Than  iron  shackles  of  the  cell, 
Or  all  the  arts  of  man. 


TRUTH. 

There  is  a  gem,  a  pearl  of  worth 

As  lasting  as  the  skies ; 
More  dazzling  than  the  gems  of  earth, 

Its  splendor  never  dies. 


BE    KIND    TO    EACH    OTHER.  49 


BE  KIND  TO  EACH  OTHER. 


BE  kind  to  each  other ! 

The  night's  coming  on, 
When  friend  and  when  brother 

Perchance  may  be  gone  ; 
Then,  'midst  our  dejection, 

How  sweet  to  have  earned 
The  blest  recollection 

Of  kindness  —  returned  ! 

When  day  hath  departed, 

And  Memory  keeps 
Her  watch,  broken-hearted, 

Where  all  she  loves  sleeps, 
Let  falsehood  assail  not, 

Nor  envy  reprove,  — 
Let  trifles  prevail  not 

Against  those  ye  love  ! 

Nor  change  with  to-morrow, 

Should  fortune  take  wing, 
But  the  deeper  the  sorrow, 

The  closer  still  cling. 
0,  be  kind  to  each  other  ! 

The  night 's  coming  on, 
When  friend  and  when  brother 

Perchance  may  be  gone. 


<§> 


50  GIVE    ME    THE    HAND. 


GIVE  ME  THE  HAND. 


GIVE  me  the  hand  that  is  warm,  kind,  and  ready ; 
Give  me  the  clasp  that  is  calm,  true,  and  steady  ; 
Give-  me  the  hand  that  will  never  deceive  me  ; 
Give  me  its  grasp  that  I  aye  may  believe  thee. 

Soft  is  the  palm  of  the  delicate  woman  ! 

Hard  is  the  hand  of  the  rough,  sturdy  yeoman ! 

Soft  palm  or  hard  hand,  it  matters  not  —  never  ! 

Give  me  the  grasp  that  is  friendly  forever. 

Give  me  the  hand  that  is  true  as  a  brother ; 
Give  me  the  hand  that  has  harmed  not  another  ; 
Give  me  the  hand  that  has  never  forswore  it ; 
Give  me  its  grasp  that  I  aye  may  adore  it. 

Lovely  the  palm  of  the  fair,  blue-veined  maiden  ! 

Horny  the  hand  of  the  workman  o'erladen  ! 

Lovely  or  ugly,  it  matters  not  —  never  ! 

Give  me  the  grasp  that  is  friendly  forever. 

Give  me  the  grasp  that  is  honest  and  hearty, 
Free  as  the  breeze,  and  unshackled  by  party ; 
Let  friendship  give  me  the  grasps  that  become  her, 
Close  as  the  twine  of  the  vines  of  the  summer. 

Give  me  the  hand  that  is  true  as  a  brother  ; 

Give  me  the  hand  that  has  wronged  not  another ; 

Soft  palm  or  hard  hand,  it  matters  not  —  never! 

Give  me  the  grasp  that  is  friendly  forever. 


THE    PALACE    OF    BEAUTY.  51 


THE  PALACE  OF  BEAUTY. 


IN  ancient  times,  two  little  princesses  lived  in 
Scotland,  one  of  whom  was  extremely  beautiful, 
and  the  other  dwarfish,  dark-colored,  and  deformed. 
One  was  named  Rose,  the  other  Marion.  The  sis- 
ters did  not  live  happily  together.  Marion  hated 
Rose  because  she  was  handsome,  and  every  body 
praised  her.  She  scowled,  and  her  face  absolutely 
grew  black  when  any  one  asked  her  how  her 
pretty  little  sister  Rose  did :  and  once  she  was  so 
wicked  as  to  cut  off  all  her  glossy,  golden  hair,  and 
throw  it  on  the  fire.  Poor  Rose  cried  bitterly  about 
it ;  but  she  did  not  scold  or  strike  her  sister,  for  she 
was  an  amiable,  gentle  little  being  as  ever  lived. 
No  wonder  all  the  family  and  all  the  neighborhood 
disliked  Marion,  and  no  wonder  her  face  grew  coarse 
and  uglier  every  day.  The  Scotch  used  to  be  very 
superstitious  people,  and  they  believed  the  infant 
Rose  had  been  blessed  by  the  fairies,  to  whom  she 
owed  her  extraordinary  beauty  and  exceeding  good- 
ness. 

Not  far  from  the  castle  where  the  princesses  re- 
sided was  a  deep  grotto,  said  to  lead  to  the  Palace 


©---          

52  THE    PALACE    OF    BEAUTY. 

of  Beauty,  where  the  queen  of  the  fairies  held  her 
court.  Some  said  Rose  had  fallen  asleep  there  one 
day,  when  she  had  grown  tired  of  chasing  a  butter- 
fly, and  that  the  queen  had  dipped  her  in  an  immor- 
tal fountain,  from  which  she  had  risen  with  the 
beauty  of  an  angel.*  Marion  often  asked  questions 
about  this  story,  but  Rose  always  replied  that  she 
had  been  forbidden  to  speak  of  it.  When  she  saw 
any  uncommonly  brilliant  bird  or  butterfly,  she 
would  sometimes  exclaim,  "  O,  how  much  that 
looks  like  fairy  land !  "  But  when  asked  what  she 
knew  about  fairy  land,  she  blushed,  and  would  not 
answer. 

Marion  thought  a  great  deal  about  this.  "  Why 
cannot  I  go  to  the  Palace  of  Beauty  ?  "  thought  she, 
"  and  why  may  not  I  bathe  in  the  Immortal  Foun- 
tain ? " 

One  summer's  noon,  when  all  was  still,  save  the 
faint  twittering  of  the  birds,  and  the  lazy  hum  of 
the  insects,  Marion  entered  the  deep  grotto.  She 
sat  down  on  a  bank  of  moss.  The  air  around  her 
was  as  fragrant  as  if  it  came  from  a  bed  of  violets  ; 
and  with  the  sound  of  far-off  music  dying  on  her 
ear,  she  fell  into  a  gentle  slumber.  When  she 
awoke,  it  was  evening,  and  she  found  herself  in  a 
small  hall,  where  opal  pillars  supported  a  rainbow 
roof,  the  bright  reflection  of  which  rested  on  crys- 
tal, walls,  and  a  golden  floor  inlaid  with  pearls.  All 

*  There  was  a  superstition,  that  whoever  slept  on  fairy  ground 
was  carried  away  by  the  fairies. 


@  —  -  = 

THE    PALACE    OF    BEAUTY.  53 

around,  between  the  opal  pillars,  stood  the  tiniest 
vases  of  pure  alabaster,  in  which  grew  a  multitude 
of  brilliant  and  fragrant  flowers.  Some  of  them, 
twining  around  the  pillars,  were  lost  in  the  floating 
rainbow  above.  The  whole  of  this  scene  of  beauty 
was  lighted  by  millions  of  fireflies,  glittering  about 
like  wandering  stars.  While  Marion  was  wonder- 
ing at  all  this,  a  little  figure,  of  rare  loveliness, 
stood  before  her.  Her  robe  was  of  green  and  gold  ; 
her  flowing  gossamer  mantle  was  caught  upon  one 
shoulder  with  a  pearl,  and  in  her  hair  was  a  solitary 
star,  composed  of  five  diamonds,  each  no  bigger 
than  a  pin's  point ;  and  thus  she  sung  :  — 

"The  fairy  queen 

Hath  rarely  seen 
Creature  of  earthly  mould 

"Within  her  door, 

On  pearly  floor, 
Inlaid  -with  shining  gold. 

Mortal,  all  thou  seest  is  fair  ; 

Quick  thy  purposes  declare." 

As  she  concluded,  the  song  was  taken  up,  and 
thrice  repeated  by  a  multitude  of  soft  voices  in  the 
distance.  It  seemed  as  if  birds  and  insects  joined 
in  the  chorus.  The  clear  voice  of  the  thrush  was 
distinctly  heard ;  the  cricket  kept  time  with  his 
tiny  cymbal ;  and  ever  and  anon  between  the 
pauses,  the  sound  of  a  distant  cascade  was  heard, 
whose  waters  fell  in  music. 

All  these  delightful  sounds  died  away,  and  the 


— @ 

54  THE    PALACE    OF    BEAUTY. 

queen  of  the  fairies  stood  patiently  awaiting  Mari- 
on's answer.  Courtesying  low,  and  with  a  trem- 
bling voice,  the  little  maiden  said,  — 

"  Will  it  please  your  majesty  to  make  me  as 
handsome  as  my  sister  Rose  ?  " 

The  queen  smiled.  "  I  will  grant  your  request," 
said  she,  "  if  you  will  promise  to  fulfil  all  the  con- 
ditions I  propose." 

Marion  eagerly  promised  that  she  would. 

"  The  Immortal  Fountain,"  replied  the  queen. 
"  is  on  the  top  of  a  high,  steep  hill.  At  four  dif- 
ferent places  fairies  are  stationed  around  it,  who 
guard  it  with  their  wands.  None  can  pass  them 
except  those  who  obey  my  orders.  Go  home  now. 
For  one  week,  speak  no  ungentle  word  to  your  sis- 
ter ;  at  the  end  of  that  time,  come  again  to  the 
grotto." 

Marion  went  home  light  of  heart.  Rose  was  in 
the  garden,  watering  the  flowers ;  and  the  first  thing 
Marion  observed,  was  that  her  sister's  sunny  hair 
had  suddenly  grown  as  long  and  beautiful  as  it  had 
ever  been.  The  sight  made  her  angry ;  and  she 
was  just  about  to  snatch  the  water-pot  from  her 
hand  with  an  angry  expression,  when  she  remem- 
bered the  fairy,  and  passed  into  the  castle  in  silence. 

The  end  of  the  week  arrived,  and  Marion  had 
faithfully  kept  her  promise.  Again  she  went  to  the 
grotto.  The  queen  was  feasting  when  she  entered 
the  hall.  The  bees  brought  honey-comb,  and  de- 
posited it  on  the  small  rose-colored  shells  which 


THE    PALACE    OF    BEAUTY.  55 

adorned  the  crystal  table.  Gaudy  butterflies  floated 
about  the  head  of  the  queen,  and  fanned  her  with 
their  wings.  The  cucullo  and  the  lantern-fly  stood 
at  her  side,  to  afford  her  light.  A  large  diamond 
beetle  formed  her  splendid  footstool,  and  when  she 
had  supped,  a  dew-drop  on  the  petal  of  a  violet  was 
brought  for  her  royal  fingers. 

When  Marion  entered,  the  diamond  sparkles  on 
the  wings  of  the  fairies  faded,  as  they  always  did 
in  the  presence  of  any  thing  not  perfectly  good ; 
and  in  a  few  moments  all  the  queen's  attendants 
vanished,  singing  as  they  went,  — 

"  The  fairy  queen 

Hath  rarely  seen 
Creature  of  earthly  mould 

Within  her  door, 

On  pearly  floor, 
Inlaid  -with  shining  gold." 

"  Mortal !  hast  thou  fulfilled  thy  promise  ? " 
asked  the  queen. 

"  I  have,"  replied  the  maiden. 

"  Then  follow  me." 

Marion  did  as  she  was  directed,  and  away  they 
went  over  beds  of  violets  and  mignonette.  The 
birds  warbled  over  their  heads,  butterflies  cooled 
the  air,  and  the  gurgling  of  many  fountains  came 
with  a  refreshing  sound.  Presently  they  came  to 
the  hill,  on  the  top  of  which  was  the  Immortal 
Fountain.  Its  foot  was  surrounded  by  a  band  of 


56  THE    PALACE    OF   BEAUTY. 

fairies  clothed  in  green  gossamer,  with  their  ivory 
wands  crossed  to  bar  the  ascent.  The  queen  waved 
her  wand  over  them,  and  immediately  they  stretched 
their  thin  wings  and  flew  away.  The  hill  was 
steep,  and  far,  far  up  they  went ;  and  the  air  became 
more  and  more  fragrant,  and  more  and  more  dis- 
tinctly they  heard  the  sound  of  waters  falling  in 
music.  At  length  they  were  stopped  by  a  band  of 
fairies  clothed  in  blue,  with  their  silver  watids 
crossed. 

"  Here,"  said  the  queen,  "  our  journey  must  end. 
You  can  go  no  farther  until  you  have  fulfilled  the 
orders  I  shall  give  you.  Go  home  now  for  one 
month.  Do  by  your  sister  in  all  respects  as  you 
would  wish  her  to  do  by  you,  were  you  Rose  and 
she  Marion." 

Marion  promised,  and  departed.  She  found  the 
task  harder  than  the  first  had  been.  She  could  not 
help  speaking  ;  but  when  Rose  asked  her  for  any 
of  her  playthings,  she  found  it  difficult  to  give  them 
gently  and  affectionately,  instead  of  pushing  them 
along.  When  Rose  talked  to  her,  she  wanted  to 
go  away  in  silence ;  and  when  a  pocket-mirror  was 
found  in  her  sister's  room,  broken  into  a  thousand 
pieces,  she  felt  sorely  tempted  to  conceal  that  she 
did  the  mischief.  But  she  was  so  anxious  to  be 
made  beautiful,  that  she  did  as  she  would  be  done  by. 

All  the  household  remarked  how  Marion  had 
changed.  "  I  love  her  dearly,"  said  Rose,  "  she  is 
so  good  and  amiable." 


THE    PALACE    OF   BEAUTY.  57 

"So  do  I,"  said  a  dozen  voices. 

Marion  blushed  deeply,  and  her  eyes  sparkled- 
with  pleasure.  '•  How  pleasant  it  is  to  be  loved !  " 
thought  she. 

At  the  end  of  the  month,  she  went  to  the  grotto. 
The  fairies  in  blue  lowered  their  silver  wands  and 
flew  away.  They  travelled  on.  The  path  grew 
steeper  and  steeper,  but  the  fragrance  of  the  atmos- 
phere was  redoubled,  and  more  distinctly  came  the 
sound  of  the  waters  falling  in  music.  Their  course 
was  stayed  by  a  troop  of  fairies  in  rainbow  robes 
and  silver  wands  tipped  with  gold.  In  face  and 
form  they  were  far  more  beautiful  than  any  thing 
Marion  had  yet  seen. 

"  Here  we  must  pause,"  said  the  queen  ;  "  this 
boundary  you  cannot  yet  pass." 

"  Why  not  ?  "  asked  the  impatient  Marion. 

"  Because  those  must  be  very  pure  who  pass  the 
rainbow  fairies,"  replied  the  queen.  .  ^ 

"  Am  I  not  very  pure  ?  "  said  the  maiden  :  "  all 
the  folks  in  the  castle  tell  me  how  good  I  have 
grown." 

"  Mortal  eyes  see  only  the  outside,"  answered 
the  queen ;  "  but  those  who  pass  the  rainbow 
fairies  must  be  pure  in  thought  as  well  as  in  action. 
Return  home.  For  three  months,  never  indulge  an 
envious  thought.  You  shall  then  have  a  sight  of 
the  Immortal  Fountain."  Marion  was  sad  at  heart, 
for  she  knew  how  many  envious  thoughts  and 
wrong  wishes  she  had  suffered  to  gain  power  over  her. 


@ 

58  THE    PALACE    OF    BEAUTY. 

At  the  end  of  three  months  she  again  visited  the 
Palace  of  Beauty.  The  queen  did  not  smile  when 
she  saw  her,  but  in  silence  led  the  way  to  the  Im- 
mortal Fountain.  The  green  fairies  and  the  blue 
fairies  flew  away  as  they  approached  ;  but  the  rain- 
bow fairies  bowed  low  to  the  queen,  and  kept  their 
gold-tipped  wands  firmly  crossed.  •  Marion  saw  that 
the  silver  specks  on  their  wings  grew  dim,  and  she 
burst  into  tears.  "  I  knew,"  said  the  queen,  "  that 
you  could  not  pass  this  boundary.  Envy  has  been 
in  your  heart,  and  you  have  not  driven  it  away. 
Your  sister  has  been  ill,  and  in  your  heart  you 
wished  that  she  might  die,  or  rise  from  the  bed  of 
sickness  deprived  of  her  beauty.  But  be  not  dis- 
couraged ;  you  have  been  several  years  indulging 
in  wrong  feelings,  and  you  must  not  wonder  that  it 
takes  many  months  to  drive  them  away." 

Marion  was  very  sad  as  she  wended  her  way 
homeward.  When  Rose  asked  her  what  was  the 
matter,  she  told  her  that  she  wanted  to  be  very 
good,  but  she  could  not.  "  When  I  want  to  be 
good,  I  read  my  Bible  and  pray,"  said  Rose  ;  "  and 
I  find  God  helps  me  to  be  good."  Then  Marion 
prayed  that  God  would  help  her  to  be  pure  in 
thought ;  and  when  wicked  feelings  rose  in  her 
heart,  she  read  her  Bible,  and  they  went  away. 

When  she  again  visited  the  Palace  of  Beauty,  the 
queen  smiled,  and  touched  her  playfully  with  the 
wand,  then  led  her  away  to  the  Immortal  Fountain. 
The  silver  specks  on  the  wings  of  the  rainbow 


CO): ••  -  : 

THE  PALACE  OF  BEAUTY.  59 

fairies  shone  bright   as  she  approached,  and  they 
lowered  their  wands,  and  sung  as  they  flew  away, — 

"  Mortal,  pass  on, 
Till  the  goal  is  won ; 
For  such  I  ween 
Is  the  will  of  the  queen  — 

Pass  on  !  pass  on !  " 

• 

And  now  every  footstep  was  on  flowers,  that 
yielded  beneath  their  feet,  as  if  their  pathway  had 
been  upon  a  cloud.  The  delicious  fragrance  could 
almost  be  felt,  yet  it  did  not  oppress  the  senses'  with 
its  heaviness  ;  and  loud,  clear,  and  liquid,  came  the 
sound  of  the  waters  as  they  fell  in  music.  And 
now  the  cascade  is  seen  leaping  and  sparkling  over 
crystal  rocks.  A  rainbow  arch  rests  above  it,  like 
a  perpetual  halo.  The  spray  falls  in  pearls,  and 
forms  fantastic  foliage  about  the  margin  of  the 
fountain.  It  has  touched  the  webs  woven  among 
the  grass,  and  they  have  become  pearl-embroidered 
cloaks  for  the  fairy  queen.  Deep  and  silent,  below 
the  foam,  is  the  Immortal  Fountain  !  Its  amber- 
colored  waves  flow  over  a  golden  bed  ;  and  as  the 
fairies  bathe  in  it,  the  diamonds  in  their  hair  glance 
like  sunbeams  on  the  waters. 

"  O,  let  me  bathe  in  the  fountain  !  "  cried  Marion, 
clasping  her  hands  in  delight.  "  Not  yet,"  said  the 
queen.  "  Behold  the  purple  fairies  with  golden 
wands  that  guard  its  brink  !  "  Marion  looked,  and 
saw  beings  far  lovelier  than  any  her  eye  ever  rested 
on.  "You  cannot  pass  them  yet,"  said  the  queen. 


©= 


60  THE    PALACE    OF    BEAUTY. 

"  Go  home.  For  one  year,  drive  away  all  evil  feel- 
ings, not  for  the  sake  of  bathing  in  this  fountain, 
but  because  goodness  is  lovely  —  desirable  for  its 
own  sake.  Purify  the  inward  motive,  and  your 
work  is  done." 

This  was  the  hardest  task  of  all.  For  she  had 
been  willing  to  be  good,  not  because  it  was  right  to 
be  good,  but  because  she  wished  to  be  beautiful. 
Three  times  she  sought  the  grotto,  and  three  times 
she  left  it  in  tears;  for  the  golden  specks  grew 
dim  at  her  approach,  and  the  golden  wands  were 
still  crossed  to  shut  her  from  the  Immortal  Foun- 
tain. The  fourth  time  she  prevailed.  The  purple 
fairies  lowered  their  wands,  singing,  — 

"  Thou  hast  scaled  the  mountain  ; 
Go  bathe  in  the  fountain. 
Rise  fair  to  the  sight 
As  an  angel  of  light ; 
Go  bathe  in  the  fountain  !  " 

Marion  was  about  to  plunge  in ;  but  the  queen 
touched  her,  saying,  "  Look  in  the  mirror  of  the 
waters.  Art  thou  not  already  as  beautiful  as  heart 
can  wish  ?  " 

Marion  looked  at  herself,  and  saw  that  her  eyes 
sparkled  with  new  lustre  ;  that  a  bright  color  shone 
through  her  cheeks,  and  dimples  played  sweetly 
about  her  mouth.  "  I  have  not  touched  the  Im- 
mortal Fountain,"  said  she,  turning  in  surprise  to 
the  queen.  "  True,"  replied  the  queen  ;  "  but  its 


©  •  — 

THE    PALACE    OF   BEAUTY.  61 

waters  have  been  within  your  soul.  Know  that  a 
pure  heart  and  a  clear  conscience  are  the  only  im- 
mortal fountains  of  beauty." 

When  Marion  returned,  Rose  clasped  her  to  her 
bosom,  and  kissed  her  fervently.  "  I  know  all," 
said  she,  "  though  I  have  not  asked  you  a  question. 
I  have  been  in  fairy-land  disguised  as  a  bird,  and  I 
have  watched  all  your  steps.  When  you  first  went 
to  the  grotto,  I  begged  the  queen  to  grant  your 
wish." 

Ever  after  that  the  sisters  lived  lovingly  together. 
It  was  the  remark  of  every  one,  "  How  handsome 
Marion  has  grown  !  The  ugly  scowl  has  departed 
from  her  face,  and  the  light  of  her  eye  is  so  mild 
and  pleasant,  and  her  mouth  looks  so  smiling  and 
good-natured,  that,  to  my  taste,  I  declare  she  is  as 
handsome  as  Rose." 


62-  BEAUTY   EVERY   WHERE. 


BEAUTY  EVERY  WHERE. 


Is  it  not  strange  how  beauty  springs 

From  germs  where  men  no  beauty  trace  ? 

How  rugged  shapes,  chaotic  things, 
Grow  into  forms  of  grace  ? 

One  would  not  think  there  were  concealed 

Such  beauty  in  the  lily's  root, 
As  blossoms  forth  upon  the  field 

What  time  the  lilies  shoot. 

And  when  the  clouds  collect  on  high, 
Like  battle  chariots  of  the  storm, 

See  how  the  darkness  of  that  sky 
Gives  forth  a  rainbow  form. 

Then  think  that  when  the  rainbow  fades, 
Its  beauty  liveth  in  the  shower ; 

First  strewing  pearls  amongst  the  blades, 
Then  blending  with  the  flower. 

Thus  every  where,  on  earth  or  sea, 
Wherever  wandering  man  may  go, 

Doth  beauty  so  mysteriously 
Around  his  pathway  grow. 

It  blossoms  upwards  from  the  earth, 
It  plays  amongst  the  heights  of  air  ; 

The  wide  old  ocean  gives  it  birth 
Amongst  the  waters  there. 


@  — 

A  LADY'S  HAND.  63 


A  LADY'S  HAND. 


•My  dear  little  lady,  that  very  white  hand, 

Which  fondly  you  cherish,  with  sorrow  I  scanned  ; 

I  knew  by  its  fairness,  and  baby-like  skin, 

A  stranger  to  labor  it  ever  had  been. 

It  sweeps  o'er  the  harp  with  magical  sway, 

Producing  sweet  music,  which  e'er  can  allay  : 

Employments  like  these,  though  they  give  you  delight, 

Are  poor  preparations  for  poverty's  night. 

Could  you  hem  a  cravat,  or  gather  a  skirt, 

Or  stitch  round  a  collar,  or  cut  out  a  shirt  ? 

Have  you  yet  attempted  to  handle  a  broom, 

To  wash  up  the  teacups,  or  dust  out  a  room, 

To  stir  up  a  pudding,  or  roll  out  a  pie, 

To  season  a  sauce,  or  marketing  buy  ? 

Though  these  occupations  for  you  are  quite  new. 

For  delicate  hands  there  is  something  to  do ; 

The  brow  of  the  sufferer  they  softly  can  bathe ; 

The  limb  of  the  wounded  they  gently  can  swathe  ; 

The  child  and  the  aged  can  tenderly  lead, 

And  give  the  relief  that  the  indigent  need ; 

The  tears  they  can  wipe  of  affliction  and  care, 

And,  fervently  clasped,  be  uplifted  in  prayer. 


64  NEATNESS. THAT    SAME    OLD   GIRL. 


NEATNESS 


I  LOVE  to  see  thy  gentle  hand 
Dispose,  with  modest  grace, 

The  household  things  around  thy  home, 
And  each  thing  in  its  place. 

And  then  thy  own  trim,  modest  form 

Is  always  neatly  clad  ; 
Thou  sure  wilt  make  the  tidiest  wife 

That  ever  husband  had. 

No  costly  splendors  needest  thou, 
To  make  thy  home  look  bright ; 

For  neatness  on  the  humblest  spot 
Can  shed  a  sunny  light. 


THAT  SAME  OLD  GIRL. 


THERE  doth  she  sit  —  that  same  old  girl 
Whom  I  in  boyhood  knew  ; 

She  seems  a  fixture  to  the  church, 
In  that  old  jail-like  pew  ! 

Once  she  was  young  —  a  blooming  miss  • 

So  do  the  aged  say ; 
Though  e'en  in  youth,  I  think,  she  must 

Have  had  an  old-like  way. 

o 


THAT   SAME   OLD  GIRL.  65 

How  prim,  and  starched,  and  kind  she  looks, 

And  so  devout  and  staid, 
I  wonder  some  old  bachelor 

Don't  wed  that  good  old  maid  ! 

She  does  not  look  so  very  old, 

Though  years  and  years  are  by 
Since  any  younger  she  has  seemed, 

E'en  to  my  boyhood's  eye. 

That  old  straw  bonnet  she  has  on, 

Tied  with  that  bow  of  blue, 
Seems  not  to  feel  Time's  changing  hand, — 

'Tis  "  near  as  good  as  new." 

The  old  silk  gown  —  the  square-toed  shoes  — 
Those  gloves  —  that  buckle's  gleam, 

That  silver  buckle  at  her  waist, 
To  me  like  old  friends  seem. 

Live  on  —  live  on  ;  and  may  the  years 

Touch  lightly  on  thy  brow ; 
As  I  beheld  thee  in  my  youth, 

And  as  I  see  thee  now,  — 

May  I,  when  age  its  furrows  deep 

Has  ploughed  upon  my  cheek, 
Behold  thee  in  that  pew,  unchanged, 

So  prim,  so  mild,  so  meek ! 


6* 


66 


LAKE   AND    RIVER. 


LAKE  AND  RIVER. 

"  They  also  serve,  who  only  stand  and  wait." 

Lake.      RIVER,  why  dost  thou  go  by, 

Sounding,  rushing,  sweeping? 

River.     Lake,  why  dost  thou  ever  lie, 
Listless,  idle,  sleeping  ? 

Lake.      Nought  before  my  power  could  stand, 
Should  I  spring  to  motion ! 

River.     I  go  blessing  all  the  land, 

From  my  source  to  ocean  ! 

Lake.      I  show  sun,  and  stars,  and  moon, 
On  my  breast  untroubled. 

River.     Ay  !  and  wilt  thou  not  as  soon 

Make  the  storm-clouds  doubled  ? 

Lake.      River,  river,  go  in  peace  ! 

I'll  no  more  reprove  thee. 
River.     Lake,  from  pride  and  censure  cease ; 

May  no  earthquake  move  thee  ! 

Lake.      I  a  higher  power  obey,  — 

Lying  still,  I'm  doing  ! 
River.     I  for  no  allurement  stay, 

My  great  end  pursuing. 

Lake.      Speed  thee  !  speed  thee,  river  bright ! 

Let  not  earth  oppose  thee  ! 
River.     Rest  thee,  lake,  with  all  thy  might, 

Where  thy  hills  enclose  thee  ! 


@  ==@ 

MEMORY.  67 

Lake.      River,  hence  we're  done  with  strife, 

Knowing  each  our  duty. 
River.     And  in  loud  or  silent  life, 

Each  may  shine  in  beauty. 

Both.      While  we  keep  our  places  thus, 

Adam's  sons  and  daughters, 
Ho !   behold,  and  learn  of  us, 
Still  and  running  waters ! 


MEMORY, 


WHAT  is  memory  ?  'Tis  the  light 

Which  hallows  life  —  a  ray  profound 
Upon  the  brow  of  mental  night  — 

An  echo,  time  the  passing  sound  — 
A  mirror ;  its  bright  surface  shows 

Hope,  fear,  grief,  love,  delight,  regret  — 
A  generous  spring  —  a  beam  which  glows 

Long  after  sun  and  star  have  set  — 
A  leaf,  nor  storm  nor  blight  can  fade  — 

An  ark  in  time's  bereaving  sea  — 
A  perfume  from  a  flower  decayed  — 

A  treasure  for  eternity  ! 


68  BEAUTIFUL,    EXTRACT. 


BEAUTIFUL  EXTRACT. 


O,  IF  there  is  one  law  above  the  rest 

Written  in  wisdom  —  if  there  is  a  word 

That  I  would  trace  as  with  a  pen  of  fire 

Upon  the  unsullied  temper  of  a  child  — 

If  there  is  any  thing  that  keeps  the  mind 

Open  to  angel  visits,  and  repels 

The  ministry  of  ill  —  ''tis  human  love  ! 

God  has  made  nothing  worthy  of  contempt. 

The  smallest  pebble  in  the  well  of  truth 

Has  its  peculiar  meanings,  and  will  stand 

When  man's  best  monuments  wear  fast  away. 

The  law  of  Heaven. is  love,  and  though  its  name 

Has  been  usurped  by  passion,  and  profaned 

To  its  unholy  uses  through  all  time, 

Still,  the  eternal  principle  is  pure ; 

And  in  these  deep  affections  that  we  feel 

Omnipotent  within  us,  we  but  see 

The  lavish  measure  in  which  love  is  given 

And  in  the  yearning  tenderness  of  a  child 

For  every  bird  that  sings  above  its  head, 

And  every  creature  feeding  on  the  hills, 

And  every  tree,  and  flower,  and  running  brook, 

We  see  how  every  thing  was  made  to  love, 

And  how  they  err,  who,  in  a  world  like  this, 

Find  any  thing  to  hate  but  human  pride. 


LADIES    OF   LONG   AGO.  69 


LADIES  OF  LONG  AGO. 


TELL  me,  to  what  region  flown 
Is  Flora,  the  fair  Roman,  gone  ? 
Where  lovely  Thais'  hiding-place, 
Her  sister  in  each  charm  and  grace  ? 
Echo,  let  thy  voice  awake, 
Over  river,  stream,  and  lake  : 
Answer,  where  does  beauty  go  ?  — 
Where  is  fled  the  south  wind's,  snow  ? 

Where  is  Eloise  the  wise, 
For  whose  two  bewitching  eyes 
Hapless  Abelard  was  doomed 
In  his  cell  to  live  entombed  ? 
Where  the  queen,  her  love  who  gave, 
Cast  in  Seine,  a  watery  grave  ? 
Where  each  lovely  cause  of  woe  ?  — 
Where  is  fled  the  south  wind's  snow  ? 

Where  thy  voice,  O  regal  fair, 
Sweet  as  is  the  lark's  in  air  ? 
Where  is  Bertha  ?  Alix  ?  she 
Who  Le  Mayne  held  gallantly  ? 
Where  is  Joan,  whom  English  flame 
Gave,  at  Rouen,  death  and  fame  ? 
Where  are  all  ?  —  does  any  know  ? 
Where  is  fled  the  south  wind's  snow  ? 


70  THE    TRUEST    FRIEND. 


THE  TRUEST  FRIEND. 


THERE  is  a  friend,  a  secret  friend, 

In  every  trial,  every  grief, 
To  cheer,  to  counsel,  and  defend, — 

Of  all  we  ever  had  the  chief !  — 
A  friend,  who,  watching  from  above, 

Whene'er  in  error's  path  we  trod, 
Still  sought  us  with  reproving  love  : 

That  friend,  that  secret  friend,  is  GOD  ! 

There  is  a  friend,  a  faithful  friend, 

In  every  chance  and  change  of  fate, 
Whose  boundless  love  doth  solace  send, 

When  other  friendships  come  too  late  — 
A  friend,  that  when  the  world  deceives, 

And  wearily  we  onward  plod, 
Still  comforts  every  heart  that  grieves  : 

That  true,  that  faithful  friend  is  GOD. 

How  blest  the  years  of  life  might  flow, 

In  one  unchanged,  unshaken  trust, 
[f  man  this  truth  would  only  know, 

And  love  his  Maker,  and  be  just ! 
Yes,  there's  a  friend,  a  constant  friend, 

Who  ne'er  forsakes  the  lowliest  sod, 
But,  in  each  need,  His  hand  doth  lend : 

That  friend,  that  truest  friend,  is  GOD. 


A   LOVELY    BRIDE.  71 


A  LOVELY  BRIDE. 


I  WAS  spending  an  hour,  not  long  since,  in  turn- 
ing the  pages  of  a  pleasant  miscellany,  in  the  course 
of  which  my  eye  fell  upon  the  following  rare,  but 
beautiful  and  touching  incident,  in  the  history  of 
one  who  that  day  was  to  become  a  bride. 

A  party  of  lively  and  interested  cousins  and 
friends  had  early  assembled  at  the  bridal  mansion 
for  the  purpose  of  decorating  the  drawing-room, 
where  the  marriage  ceremony  was  to  be  performed. 
At  length  this  pleasant  duty  being  accomplished, 
they  retired,  happy  in  contributing  to  the  joy  of  an 
occasion  which,  while  it  would  take  from  them  one 
whom  they  loved,  would  unite  that  one  to  the  ob- 
ject of  her  highest  regard.  The  room  was  beauti- 
fully decorated  with  rich  and  variegated  bouquets, 
and  on  a  centre-table  lay  the  gayly-adorned  bride's 
loaf,  an  object  of  great  importance. 

I  said  all  had  retired  from  the  lovely  spot ;  but 
there  was  one  of  the  cousins,  who,  a  short  time 
after,  stole  gently  back,  to  look  once  more  at  the 
varied  beauty  of  the  scene,  and  to  indulge  by  her- 
self the  hopes  and  anticipations  of  an  affectionate 
heart  for  the  future  happiness  of  her  friend.  She 
gently  opened  the  door,  and  was  about  entering, 

©  =< 


72  A   LOVELY    BRIDE. 


when  she  noticed  the  sofa  was  wheeled  round  to 
the  precise  spot  where,  that  evening,  the  happy  pair 
were  to  rise  and  exchange  their  solemn  vows  ;  and 
there  the  lovely  bride  was  kneeling,  so  absorbed  in 
her  own  thoughts,  the  intrusion  of  her  friend  was 
unnoticed.  That  friend  stood  for  a  moment,  gazing 
in  holy  admiration  at  the  scene  j  she  longed  gently  to 
approach  and  kneel  by  her  side,  but  the  occasion  was 
too  sacred  to  admit  of  social  union,  and  she  retired. 

And  what  so  solemn  and  absorbing  was  occupy- 
ing the  thoughts  of  this  happy  being  ?  Was  it  the 
anticipations  of  worldly  felicity  that  had  brought 
her  there  ?  Looking  round  upon  the  beauty  and 
gayety  of  the  room,  where  in  a  few  hours  she  would 
give  her  hand  to-  him  whom  she  preferred  to  all 
others  on  earth,  had  she,  in  the  wilderness  and  ex- 
cess of  her  own  emotions,  fallen  into  a  reverie  ? 
Nothing  of  the  kind.  Delighted  she  might  be,  and 
justly  was ;  but  she  had  one  duty  to  perform,  a  high 
and  holy  duty,  ere  she  plighted  her  vows  to  the 
object  of  her  early  affections.  There,  in  that  spot 
where  she  would  soon  stand,  and  surrender  her 
earthly  all  to  her  husband,  she  would  first  conse- 
crate herself  to  the  Lord.  The  prior  consecration 
was  due  to  him.  On  that  altar  she  wished  to  offer 
an  earlier  and  holier  incense  ;  on  that  spot,  to  make 
a  record  of  the  prior  deed  which  she  had  given  of 
herself  to  her  superior  Lord. 

I  know  not  of  an  earthly  scene  more  lovely,  or 
of  an  immortal  being,  in  similar  circumstances,  in  an 


pj—  •  — 

A    LOVELY    BRIDE.  73 


attitude  more  becoming.  And  I  am  sure,  that  if  her 
intended  husband  had  himself  the  love  of  God 
reigning  in  his  heart,  and  could  he  have  seen  her 
there,  whatever  he  might  have  thought  of  her  be- 
fore, his  love  would  have  said  —  not,  perhaps,  with 
perfect  truth,  for  others,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  have  done 
so  before  her  —  but  he  might  be  forgiven,  if,  in  his 
ardor  and  admiration,  he  had  exclaimed,  "Many 
daughters  have  done  virtuously,  but  thou  excellest 
them  all." 

What  a  beautiful  example  for  the  imitation  of 
those  who  are  about  to  be  led  to  the  hymeneal  altar  ! 
Most  beautiful,  most  becoming!  I  know  not  the 
subsequent  history  of  that  "lovely  bride,"  but  I 
am  certain  she  never  repented  of.  that  act  of  self- 
dedication  to  God.  She  may  not,  indeed,  have  es- 
caped sorrow  and  affliction,  but  if  they  were  her  lot, 
I  know  that  God  would  remember  the  kindness  of 
her  youth.  He  would  not  forsake  her.  She  might 
bury  her  husband,  children,  friends  ;  she  might  suf- 
fer sickness  and  poverty  ;  but  in  no  hour  would  her 
heavenly  Father  forsake  her.  He  would  guide  her 
by  his  counsel,  and  afterwards  receive  her  to  glory. 
Youthful  females  !  would  you  lay  the  foundation  of 
future  peace  ?  would  you  provide  against  the  re- 
verses of  fortune  ?  would  you  have  a  friend  and  a 
protector  through  this  world  of  vicissitude  ?  would 
you  have  consolation  in  the  darkest  night  of  adver- 
sity which  may  set  in  upon  you  ?  —  imitate  the  ex- 
ample of  "  a  lovely  bride." 
@=  =( 


74  THE    WEDDING   RING. 


THE  WEDDING  RING. 


GIVE  me  the  wedding  ring,  love, 
With  jewels  bright  and  fair : 

Place  it  on  my  finger,  love, 
And  smile  to  see  it  there. 

Give  me  the  wedding  ring,  love  ; 

And  let  me  guard  it  well ; 
I'll  keep  the  holy  pledge,  love  ; 

Of  happy  days  to  tell. 

Give  me  the  wedding  ring,  love  ; 

I  long  to  call  it  mine  ; 
I  prize  it  most  for  thee,  love, 

A  precious  gift  of  thine. 

Give  me  the  wedding  ring,  love ; 

I'll  wear  its  jewels  long  ; 
I'll  wear  it  for  thy  sake,  love, 

Till  life's  last  work  is  done. 

Give  me  the  wedding  ring,  love ; 

No  trifle  shall  it  be, 
To  her  who  gives  herself,  love, 

With  cheerful  heart  to  thee. 


A   LITTLE    WORD.  75 


The  wedding  ring  is  mine,  love  ; 

I'll  wear  it  until  death  ; 
I  will  not  loose  the  gift,  love, 

While  life  retains  its  breath. 

I'll  wear  it  to  my  grave,  love, 
And  in  the  coffin's  dust, 

The  ring  shall  glisten  there,  love, 
The  fond  heart's  bridal  trust. 


A  LITTLE  WORD. 


A  LITTLE  word  in  kindness  spoken, 

A  motion,  or  a  tear, 
Has  often  healed  the  heart  that's  broken, 

And  made  a  friend  sincere. 

A  word  —  a  look  —  has  crushed  to  earth 

Full  many  a  budding  flower, 
Which,  had  a  smile  but  owned  its  birth, 

Would  bless  life's  darkest  hour. 

Then  deem  it  not  an  idle  thing 

A  pleasant  word  to  speak ; 
The  face  you  wear,  the  thought  you  bring, 

A  heart  may  heal  or  break. 


(01 


76  WEDDING   GIFTS. 


WEDDING  GIFTS. 


YOUNG  bride,  —  a  wreath  for  thee 
Of  sweet  and  gentle  flowers  ; 

For  wedded  love  was  pure  and  free 
In  Eden's  happy  bowers. 

Young  bride,  —  a  song  for  thee  ! 

A  song  of  joyous  measure, 
For  thy  cup  of  hope  shall  be 

Filled  with  honeyed  pleasure. 

Young  bride,  —  a  tear  for  thee  ! 

A  tear  in  all  thy  gladness  ; 
For  thy  young  heart  shall  not  see 

Joy  unmixed  with  sadness. 

Young  bride,  —  a  smile  for  thee  ! 

To  shine  away  thy  sorrow, 
For  Heaven  is  kind  to-day,  and  we 

Will  hope  as  well  to-morrow. 

Young  bride,  —  a  prayer  for  thee  ! 

That,  all  thy  hopes  possessing, 
Thy  soul  may  praise  her  God,  and  he 

May  crown  thee  with  his  blessing. 


@ 


A  MOTHER'S  SMILE.  77 


A  MOTHER'S  SMILE. 


THERE  are  clouds  that  must  o'ershade  us, 

'  There  are  griefs  that  all  must  know, 
There  are  sorrows  that  have  made  us 

Feel  the  tide  of  human  woe  ; 
But  the  deepest,  darkest  sorrow, 

Though  it  sear  the  heart  a  while, 
Hope's  cheering  ray  may  borrow 

From  a  mother's  welcome  smile. 

There  are  days  in  youth  that  greet  us 

With  a  ray  too  bright  to  last, 
There  are  cares  of  age  to  meet  us 

When  those  sunny  days  are  past ; 
But  the  past  scenes  hover  o'er  us, 

And  give  back  the  heart  a  while, 
All  that  memory  can  restore  us 

In  a  mother's  welcome  smile. 

There  are  scenes  and  sunny  places 

On  which  feeling  loves  to  dwell, 
There  are  many  happy  faces 

Who  have  known  and  loved  us  well ; 
But  'mid  joy  or  'mid  dejection, 

There  is  nothing  can  beguile, 
That  can  show  the  fond  affection 

Of  a  mother's  welcome  smile. 


® 


@          — 

78          TRUE  LOVE  AND  A  HAPPY  HOME. 


TRUE  LOVE  AND  A  HAPPY  HOME. 


"  ASK  what  thou  wilt,"  said  a  fairy  voice, 

"  Ask  what  thou  wilt  of  me  ; 
Of  all  on  earth  thou  canst  have  thy  choice, 

On  land  or  on  the  sea. 
I  have  the  power  rich  gifts  to  bestow, 

And  what  thou  wilt  I'll  grant ; 
But  only  once,  I  would  have  thee  know, 

Can  I  supply  thy  want." 

Then  I  sat  me  down  and  pondered  long, 

Of  what  the  gift  should  be. 
Which  the  fairy  voice  had  kindly  said 

Should  be  given  but  once  to  me. 
I  will  not  ask  that  wealth,  or  fame, 

Should  a  worthless  chaplet  twine 
Around  my  brow,  or  adorn  my  name  ; 

Nor  that  beauty  should  be  mine. 

For  these  are  transient  as  the  dew 

Before  the  burning  sun  ; 
And  fade  as  quickly  from  the  view, 

Ere  morning  is  begun. 
"  In  none  of  these,"  my  heart  replied, 

"  Would  the  height  of  happiness  be  ; 
True  love  and  a  happy  home,"  I  cried, 

"  Is  all  I  ask  of  thee." 


HOME    FOR   ALL.  79 


HOME  FOR  ALL. 


THEY  tell  me  there's  a  fairer  home, 
A  better,  purer  sphere  than  this, 

Where  pleasures  all  immortal  bloom, 
A  lasting  home  of  changeless  bliss. ' 

They  tell  me  there's  a  higher  home, 
Far  from  this  scene  of  gloomy  fear, 

Where  golden  (lowers  celestial  bloom, 
Where  skies  are  fair  and  always  clear. 

They  tell  me  there's  a  home  of  peace, 
A  fadeless  home  of  glory  bright, 

Unchanging  and  forever  new, 

'Mid  shining  orbs  and  worlds  of  light. 

They  tell  me  there's  a  home  of  rest, 
In  mansions  that  are  reared  above, 

Where  hearts  beat  true,  where  mourners  find 
A  heavenly  balm  of  glorious  love. 

They  tell  me  of  the  beauties  there, 

Rich  beauties  that  will  charm  the  soul, 

Of  countless  glories  deep  and  true, 

Where  streams  of  pleasure  ceaseless  roll. 

The  fount  of  joy  is  ever  full ; 

There  death  will  draw  no  parting  tears ; 
But  rills  of  life  roll  on  and  on, 

Through  all  the  never-ending  years. 


=(2) 


Far,  far  above  earth's  low  deceit, 
Beyond  the  wilds  of  grief  and  care, 

My  home,  my  home,  my  heavenly  home, 
'Mid  shining  orbs,  'tis  there  !  'tis  there  ! 


WOMAN, 


WOMAN,  dear  woman,  in  whose  name 

Wife,  sister,  mother  meet, 
Thine  is  the  heart  by  earliest  claim, 

And  thine  its  latest  beat. 
In  thee  the  angel-virtues  shine  ; 

An  angel  form  to  thee  is  given  : 
Then  be  an  angel's  office  thine, 

And  lead  the  soul  to  heaven. 

From  thee  we  draw  our  infant  strength  ; 

Thou  art  our  childhood's  friend  ; 
And  when  the  man  unfolds  at  length, 

On  thee  his  hopes  depend  ; 
For  round  the  heart  thy  power  hath  spun 

A  thousand  dear,  mysterious  ties  : 
Then  take  the  heart  thy  charms  have  won, 

And  nurse  it  for  the  skies. 


THE    MAN    I   LIKE.  81 


THE  MAN  I  LIKE. 


I  LIKE  the  man  who  will  maintain 

A  dignity  and  grace ; 
Who  can  be  social  when  there's  need, 

And  always  knows  his  place. 

I  love  the  man  whose  blandest  smile 
Is  seen  at  home,  "  sweet  home," 

Who,  when  his  daily  task  is  o'er, 
Has  no  desire  to  roam. 

I  like  the  man  whose  piercing  glance 
Will  make  the  guilty  start, 

As  though  he  had  the  power  to  search 
His  very  inmost  heart. 

I  like  the  man  whose  generous  soul 

Pities  the  orphan's  woe  ; 
Who  never  lets  the  needy  one 

Unaided  from  him  go. 

I'd  have  him  generous,  good,  and  just, 

As  God  made  man  to  be  ; 
The  noblest  work  below  the  sun 

Is  such  a  one  as  he. 

And  now  I've  told  you  whom  I  like, 
And  you  may  think  the  same ; 

Should  Mr.  Such-a-one  come  along, 
Then  I  would  change  my  name. 


— @ 

82  THE    LILY. 


THE  LILY. 


I  HAD  found  out  a  sweet  green  spot, 

Where  a  lily  was  blooming  fair  ; 
The  din  of  the  city  disturbed  it  not, 
But  the  spirit,  that  shades  the  quiet  cot 

With  its  wings  of  love,  was  there. 

I  found  that  lily's  bloom 

When  the  day  was  dark  and  chill : 

It  smiled,  like  a  star  in  the  misty  gloom, 
And  it  sent  abroad  a  soft  perfume, 

Which  is  floating  around  me  still. 

I  sat  by  the  lily's  bell, 

And  watched  it  many  a  day  :  — 

The  leaves,  that  rose  in  a  flowing  swell, 
Grew  faint  and  dim,  then  drooped  and  fell, 

And  the  flower  had  flown  away. 

I  looked  where  the  leaves  were  laid, 

In  withering  paleness,  by, 

And,  as  gloomy  thoughts  stole  on  me,  said, 
*'  There  is  many  a  sweet  and  blooming  maid 

Who  will  soon  as  dimly  die." 


THE    CHURCH    BELL.  83 


THE  CHURCH   BELL. 


WE  have  read  many  affecting,  instructive,  and 
moral  tales,  but  certainly  none  to  surpass  the  fol- 
lowing, translated  from  the  German  by  CLARA 
CUSHMAN.  Its  quiet  pathos,  the  motive  with  which 
it  is  impregnated,  the  beneficial  and  pious  tone 
(pious  without  being  fanatical)  in  which  it  is 
clothed,  and  the  skill  evinced  in  its  construction, 
render  it  a  true  gem ;  and  we  trust  none  of  our 
readers  will  pass  it  by  unnoticed. 

The  village  was  small,  and  the  church  was  not  a 
cathedral,  but  a  quiet,  unostentatious  stone  chapel, 
half  covered  by  climbing  plants,  and  a  forest  of 
dark  trees  round  it.  They  shaded  the  interior  so 
completely  in  the  summer  afternoons,  that  the 
figure  of  the  altar-piece  (painted,  the  villagers 
averred,  by  Abrecht  Durer)  could  scarce  be  dis- 
tinguished, and  rested  upon  the  broad  canvas,  a 
mass  of  shadowy  outlines. 

A  quaint  carved  belfrey  rose  above  the  trees,  and 
in  the  bright  dawn  of  the  Sabbath,  a  chime,  sweet 
and  holy,  floated  from  it,  calling  the  villagers  to 
their  devotions ;  but  the  bell,  whose  iron  tongue 
gave  forth  that  chime,  was  not  the  bell  that  my 

©  @ 


84  THE    CHURCH   BELL. 

story  speaks  of.  There  was  another,  long  before 
that  was  cast,  that  had  hung  for  years,  perhaps  a 
century,  in  the  same  place.  But  now  it  is  no  longer 
elevated.  Its  tongue  is  mute,  for  it  lies  upon  the 
ground  at  the  foot  of  the  church  tower,  broken  and 
bruised.  It  is  half  buried  in  the  rich  mould,  and 
there  are  green  stains  creeping  over  it,  eating  into 
its  iron  heart.  No  one  heeds  it  now,  for  those  who 
had  brought  it  there  are  sleeping  coldly  and  silently 
all  around  in  the  churchyard.  The  shadow  of  these 
dark  trees  rests  on  many  graves. 

How  came  the  bell  to  be  thus  neglected  ?  A 
new  generation  arose. 

"  See,"  they  said,  "  the  church  where  our  parents 
worshipped  falls  to  decay.  Its  towers  crumble  to 
dust.  The  bell  has  lost  its  silver  tone  —  it  is 
broken.  We  will  have  a  new  tower,  and  another 
bell  shall  call  us  to  our  worship." 

So  the  old  belfrey  was  destroyed,  and  the  old 
bell  lay  at  the  foundation.  It  was  grieved  at  the 
cruel  sentence,  but  it  scorned  to  complain.  It  was 
voiceless. 

They  came,  weeks  after,  to  remove  it  —  the  re- 
mains would  still  be  of  use ;  but  strive  as  they 
would,  no  strength  was  able  to  raise  the  bell.  It 
|  had  grown  ponderous  —  it  defied  them,  rooted  to 
'  the  earth  as  it  seemed. 

"  They  cannot  make  me  leave  my  post,"  thought 
:  the  bell.  "  I  will  watch  over  this  holy  spot.  It 
';  has  been  my  care  for  years." 


•§>.  - 


@ 

THE    CHURCH   BELL.  85 


Time  passed,  and  they  strove  no  longer  to  remove 
the  relic.  Its  successor  rang  clearly  from  the  tower 
above  his  head,  and  the  old  bell  slumbered  on  in 
warm  sunshine  and  the  dreary  storm,  unmolested, 
and  almost  forgotten. 

The  afternoon  was  calm,  but  the  sun's  rays  were 
most  powerful.  A  bright,  noble  boy  had  been 
walking  listlessly  under  the  whispering  trees.  He 
was  in  high  health,  and  was  resting  from  eager 
exercise ;  for  there  was  a  flush  upon  his  open  brow, 
and  as  he  walked  he  wiped  the  beaded  drops  from 
his  forehead. 

"Ah,  here  is  the  place,"  he  said.  "I  will  lie 
down  in  the  cool  shade,  and  read  this  pleasant  vol- 
ume." 

So  the  youth  stretched  his  wearied  limbs  upon 
the  velvet  grass,  and  his  head  rested  near  the  old 
bell ;  but  he  did  not  know  it,  for  there  was  a  low 
shrub  with  thick  serrated  leaves  and  fragrant  blos- 
soms spreading  over  it,  and  the  youth  did  not  care 
to  look  beyond. 

Presently  the  letters  in  his  book  began  to  grow 
indistinct.  There  was  a  mist  creeping  over  the 
page,  and  while  he  wondered  at  the  marvel,  a  low, 
clear  voice  spoke  to  him.  Yes,  it  called  his  name, 
"Novalis." 

"  I  am  here,"  said  the  lad,  though  he  could  see 
no  one.  He  glanced  upward  and  around,  yet  there 
was  no  living  creature  in  sight. 

"  Listen,"  said  the  voice.  "  I  have  not  spoken 
(Q)= 1 


86  THE    CHURCH    BELL. 


to  mortal  for  many,  many  years.  My  voice  was 
hushed  at  thy  birth.  Come,  I  will  tell  thee  of  it." 

The  youth  listened,  though  he  was  sadly  amazed. 
He  felt  bound  to  the  spot,  and  he  could  not  close 
his  ears. 

"  Time  has  passed  swiftly,"  said  the  voice,  "since 
I  watched  the  children,  who  are  now  men  and 
women,  at  their  sports  in  the  neighboring  forest. 
I  looked  out  from  my  station  in  the  old  tower,  and 
morning  and  evening  beheld  with  joy  those  inno- 
cent faces,  as  they  ran  arid  bounded  in  wild  delight, 
fearless  of  the  future,  and  careless  of  the  present 
hour.  They  were  all  my  children,  for  I  rejoiced  at 
their  birth  ;  and  if  it  was  ordained  that  the  good 
Shepherd  early  called  one  of  the  lambs  to  his  bo- 
som, I  tolled  not  mournfully,  but  solemnly,  at  the 
departure.  I  knew  it  was  far  better  for  those  who 
slept  thus  peacefully,  and  I  could  not  sorrow  for 
them. 

"  I  marked  one,  a  fair,  delicate  girl,  who  often 
separated  herself  from  her  merry  companions.  She 
would  leave  their  noisy  play,  and  stealing  with  her 
book  and  work  through  the  dark  old  trees,  would 
sit  for  hours  in  the  shadow  of  the  tower.  Though 
she  never  came  without  a  volume,  such  a  one  as 
just  now  you  were  reading,  the  book  was  often 
neglected  ;  and,  leaning  her  head  upon  her  hand, 
she  would  remain  until  the  twilight  tenderly  veiled 
her  beautiful  form,  rapt  in  a  deep,  still  musing. 
I  knew  that  her  thoughts  were  holy  and  pure  — 


THE    CHURCH    BELL.  87 

often  of  Heaven ;  for  she  would  raise  her  eyes  to 
the  bending  sky,  jewelled  as  it  was,  in  the  evening 
hour,  and  seem  in  prayer,  though  her  lips  moved 
not,  and  the  listening  breezes  could  not  catch  a 
murmured  word. 

"  But  the  girl  grew  up,  innocent  as  in  her  child- 
hood, yet  with  a  rosier  flush  upon  her  cheeks,  and 
a  brighter  lustre  in  her  dreamy  eye.  I  did  not  see 
her  so  often ;  but  when  my  voice,  on  the  bright 
Sabbath  morning,  called  those  who  loved  the  Good 
Father  to  come  and  thank  him  for  his  wondrous 
mercy  and  goodness,  she  was  the  first  to  obey  the 
summons  ;  and  I  watched  the  snowy  drapery  which 
she  always  wore,  as  it  fluttered  by  the  dark  foliage, 
or  gleamed  in  the  glad  sunshine.  She  did  not 
come  alone,  for  her  grandsire  ever  leaned  upon  her 
arm,  and  she  guided  his  uncertain  steps,  and  listened 
earnestly  to  the  words  of  wisdom  which' he  spake. 
Then  I  marked  that  often  another  joined  the  group 
—  a  youth  who  had  been  her  companion  years 
agone,  when  she  was  a  very  child.  Now  they  did 
not  stray  as  then,  with  arms  entwined,  and  hand 
linked  in  hand  ;  but  the  youth  supported  the  grand- 
sire,  and  she  walked  beside  him,  looking  timidly 
upon  the  ground  ;  and  if  by  chance  he  spoke  to  her, 
a  bright  glow  would  arise  to  her  lips  and  forehead. 

"  Never  did  my  voice  ring  out  for  a  merrier 
bridal  than  on  the  morn  when  they  were  united 
before  the  altar  of  this  very  church.  All  the  vil- 
lage rejoiced  with  them,  for  the  gentle  girl  was 


j 


88  THE    CHURCH    BELL. 

loved  as  a  sister  and  a  daughter.  All  said  the  youth 
to  whom  she  had  plighted  her  troth  was  well  wor- 
thy of  the  jewel  he  had  gained.  The  old  praised, 
and  the  young  admired,  as  the  bridal  party  turned 
towards  their  home  —  a  simple  vine-shaded  cottage, 
not  a  stone's  throw  from  where  thou  art  lying. 
They  did  not  forget  the  God  who  bestowed  so 
much  happiness  on  them,  even  in  the  midst  of 
pleasure  ;  and  often  they  would  come  in  the  hush 
of  twilight,  and,  kneeling  by  the  altar,  give  thanks 
for  the  mercies  they  had  received. 

"  Two  years  —  long  as  the  period  may  seem  to 
youth  —  glide  swiftly  past  when  the  heart  is  not  at 
rest.  Then  once  more  a  chime  floated  from  the 
belfry.  It  was  at  early  dawn,  when  the  mist  was 
lying  on  the  mountain  side,  and  the  dew,  hid 
trembling  in  the  harebells,  frighted  by  the  first 
beams  of  the  rising  day.  A  son  had  been  given 
them — a  bright,  healthful  babe,  with  eyes  blue  as 
the  mother's  who  clasped  him  to  her  breast,  and 
dedicated  him  with  his  first  breath  to  the  Parent 
who  had  watched  over  her  orphaned  youth,  and  had 
given  this  treasure  to  her  keeping. 

"  That  bright  day  faded,  and  even  came  sadly 
upon  the  face  of  nature.  Deep  and  mournful  was 
the  tone  I  flung  upon  the  passing  wind,  and  the  fir- 
trees  of  the  forest  sent  back  a  moan  from  their 
swaying  branches,  heavily  swaying,  as  if  for  sym- 
pathy. Life  was  that  day  given,  but  another  had 
been  recalled.  The  young  mother's  sleep  was  not 

)  -@ 


THE    CHURCH    BELL.  89 


broken,  even  by  the  wailing  voice  of  her  first-born, 
for  it  was  the  repose  of  death. 

"  They  laid  her  beside  the  very  spot  where  she 
had  passed  so  many  hours ;  and  then  I  knew  it  was 
the  grave  of  her  parents  which  she  had  so  loved  to 
visit. 

"  The  son  lived,  and  the  father's  grief  abated 
when  he  saw  the  boy  growing  into  the  image  of 
his  mother;  and  when  the  child,  with"  uncertain 
footsteps,  had  dared  to  tread  upon  the  velvet  grass, 
the  father  brought  him  to  the  churchyard,  and 
clasping  his  little  hands  as  he  knelt  beside  him, 
taught  the  babe  that  he  had  also  a  Father  in  heaven. 

"  I  have  lain  since  that  time  almost  by  her  side, 
for  my  pride  was  humbled  when  they  removed  me 
from  the  station  I  had  so  long  occupied.  My  voice 
has  been  hushed  from  that  sorrowful  night  even 
until  now  ;  but  I  am  compelled  to  speak  to  thee. 

"  Boy !  boy !  it  is  thy  mother  of  whom  I  have 
told  thee  !  Two  lives  were  given  for  thine  !  —  thy 
mother,  who  brought  thee  into  the  world,  thy 
Savior,  through  whom  is  thy  second  birth.  They 
have  died  that  thou  mightst  live ;  and  for  so  great  a 
sacrifice,  how  much  will  be  required  of  thee  !  See 
that  thou  art  not  found  wanting  when,  a  reckoning 
is  required  of  thee." 

Suddenly  as  it  had  been  borne  to  his  ears,  the 
voice  became  silent.  The  boy  started  as  from  a 
deep  sleep,  and  put  his  hand  to  his  brow.  The 
dew  lay  damp  upon  it.  The  shades  of  evening  had 

8* 


90  THE    CHURCH   BELL. 


crept  over  the  churchyard,  and  he  could  scarce  dis- 
cern the  white  slab  that  marked  the  resting-place 
of  his  mother.  It  may  have  been  a  dream  ;  but 
when  he  searched  about  him  for  the  old  bell,  it  was 
lying  with  its  lip  very  near  to  the  fragment  pillow 
upon  which  he  had  reposed. 

Thoughtfully  and  slowly  the  boy  went  towards 
his  home  ;  but  though  he  told  no  one,  not  even  his 
father,  what  had  befallen  him,  the  story  of  the  old 
bell  was  never  forgotten,  and  his  future  life  was 
influenced  by  its  remembrance. 


A    WORD    TO    THE    SORROWING.  91 


A  WORD  TO  THE  SORROWING. 


LOOK  forward ! 

Though  dark  clouds  of  grief  hang  o'er  thee, 
Brighter  scenes  are  yet  before  thee, 
Which  will  peace  and  joy  restore  thee, 

Pure  and  sweet ; 
Scenes  of  happiness  disclosing, 
In -the  future  now  reposing, 

Bliss  complete 

Look  upward  ! 

Each  bright  orb  above  thee  gleaming, 
Like  pure  light  from  glory  streaming, 
Ever  o'er  thee  fondly  beaming, 

Speaks  a  rest, 

Where  no  care  will  e'er  oppress  thee, 
Where  no  pain  will  e'er  distress  thee, 

With  the  blest. 

Press  onward ! 

Upward,  onward,  still  be  pressing, 
Wait  not  till  the  promised  blessing, 
Endless  life,  thou  art  possessing, 

That  blest  prize  ! 
Upward  !  onward  !  do  not  linger, 
Hope  still  points,  with  radiant  finger, 

To  the  skies. 


Co)--  —  

92  THE    DESERTED. 


THE  DESERTED. 


LOVE  him !    Was  ever  woman's  heart  so  yielded  up  as 

mine, 

So  dead  to  every  other  thought,  or  human  or  divine  ? 
Mind,  soul,  and  intellect   have  bowed  in  homage  at  his 

feet, 
And  in  their   ruin   blindly  thought  such    abject  worship 

meet. 

Love  him  !  Yes,  though  I  know  his  heart  is  cold  and  dead 
to  me ! 

O,  that  it  is  to  suffer  all  the  deep  soul's  agony  — 

To  wish  for  death,  and  yet  to  live  a  life  of  endless 
years, 

To  long  to  weep,  yet  feel  the  brain  grow  wild  with  un- 
shed tears. 

'Tis  well,  they  say  —  the  heartless  world  —  that  in  life's 

pleasant  springs 
Are    mingled    bitter   drops  of  woe,  or  else    its    fleeting 

things, 
Its  withering  flowers  of  hope,  that  wile  the  heart  to  love, 

would  grow 
Too   mighty   in  their  loveliness,    and   chain  our    souls 

bqlow. 


©=-  — 

THE    DESERTED.  93 

They  say,  too,  woman's  trusting  heart  should  scorn  to  be 

a  slave, 
Should  sooner  send  its  throbbing  pulse  to  slumber  in  the 

grave; 
And  I  have  tried  to  summon  pride,  now  that  my  dreams 

are  o'er, 
But  when  I  thought  I  hated  most,  I  found  I  loved  the  more. 

And   I   must  wear   upon   my  face,   to  hide   the   wreck 

within, 
A  mask  of  smiles ;  HE  shall  not  see  how  deep  the  wound 

has  been ; 
He  shall  not  know  that  'neath  the  flowers  of  seeming 

happiness 
There  lurk  the  thorns  of  blighted  love  to  poison  every 

bliss. 

The  blotted    page  of  girlish   years,   the  lessons  I  have 

learned, 
Shall  teach  to  win  as  I  was  won  —  to  spurn  as    I  was 

spurned ; 
My  heart  be  one  cold  marble  shrine,  to  which  mankind 

shall  bow ; 
Away  with   love  —  fond,  trusting  love  —  I  am  a  woman 

now ! 


=©.• 


@ 

94  VIRTUE   AND    ORNAMENT. 


VIRTUE  AND  ORNAMENT. 


THE  diamond's  and  the  ruby's  rays 
Shine  with  a  milder,  finer  flame, 

And  more  attract  our  love  and  praise 
Than  beauty's  self,  if  lost  to  fame. 

But  the  sweet  tear  in  pity's  eye 

Transcends  the  diamond's  brightest  beams  ; 
And  the  soft  blush  of  modesty 

More  precious  than  the  ruby  seems. 

The  glowing  gem,  the  sparkling  stone, 
May  strike  the  sight  with  quick  surprise  ; 

But  truth  and  innocence  alone 

Can  still  engage  the  good  and  wise. 

No  glittering  ornament  or  show 
Will  aught  avail  in  grief  or  pain : 

Only  from  inward  worth  can  flow 
Delight  that  ever  shall  remain. 

Behold,  ye  fair,  your  lovely  queen  ! 

'Tis  not  her  jewels,  but  her  mind  ; 
A  meeker,  purer,  ne'er  was  seen ! 

It  is  her  virtue  charms  mankind ! 


TO    MIMOSA.  95 


TO  MIMOSA. 


0  LADY,  give  thy  fancy  wings, 

"  Pour  forth  the  flowing  line  ; " 
O,  ne'er  should  lie  untouched  the  strings 
Of  harp  so  sweet  as  thine. 

Thy  themes  delight ;  to  me  they  bring 

A  soothing  melody ; 
And  o'er  my  ruffled  spirits  fling 

The  charms  of  minstrelsy. 

• 

1  never  saw  thee  —  yet  thy  song 

Awakes,  to  memory, 
Some  voice  of  that  now  severed  throng, 
That  seemed  the  world  to  me. 

Among  them  was  a  gifted  one  — 

O,  sadly  sweet  the  lay 
She  tuned  —  her  harp  was  like  thine  own  ; 

But  she  was  called  away. 

Thine  is  the  power  to  call  back  days 
That  once  were  bright  and  fair, 

And  friends  who  trod  with  me  the  ways 
Of  youth  devoid  of  care. 

Then,  lady,  often  wake  the  lyre, 

With  artlessness  thine  own  ; 
Of  thy  sweet  lays,  O,  none  can  tire, 

So  soft  and  pure  the  tone. 


96  NINOMAH. 


NINOMAH. 

_ 
THE  winds  are  whistling  loud  and  shrill  — 

The  night  is  damp  and  dark  ; 
I  fear  me  'twill  go  hard  with  him 

Who  dares  to-night  embark. 

It  is  a  stormy  lake,  and  wide,  — 

Ah  !  many  have  found  it  deep  !  — 
By  which  Ninomah  waits  for  one 

Who  has  a  vow  to  keep. 

She  trembles,  as  the  winds  grow  strong, 

And  waves  leap  fast  and  high  ; 
And  like  swift  hosts  that  haste  to  war, 

The  dismal  clouds  move  by. 

In  vain  she  listens  —  nought  she  hears, 

Or  sees,  but  of  the  storm, 
That  louder,  fiercer,  darker  grows, 

Around  her  trembling  form. 

"  He's  lost !  "  she  cried,  when  long  she'd  faced 

The  dark  and  dreary  shore  ; 
"  He's  lost !  and  I  with  him  will  die, 

For  he  can  come  no  more  !  " 

The  storm  went  by  —  the  morning  came  ; 

His  heart  was  glad,  I  ween, 
Who  hastened  now  to  mend  the  vow 

He  could  but  break  last  e'en. 
@  @ 


A  siaiiLE.  97 

"  O,  come,  my  love,  embark  with  me  — 

O,  where  art  thou,  my  bride  ?  " 
He  called  with  joy  —  and  then  with  fear  — 

And  not  a  voice  replied. 

But  soon  he  saw  upon  the  beach 

A  stiff  and  pallid  form, 
Left  on  the  hard  and  crystal  sand 

By  the  retreating  storm. 

It  was  Ninomah's  lifeless  corse  — 

He  saw,  —  but  saw  no  more  ! 
At  even  the  hunter  oft  has  seen 

Two  spectres  walk  that  shore. 


A  SIMILE. 


I  SAW  on  the  top  of  a  mountain  high 
A  gem  that  shone  like  fire  by  night ; 

It  seemed  a  star  that  had  left  the  sky, 

And  dropped  to  sleep  on  the  mountain's  height. 

I  climbed  the  peak,  and  I  found  it  soon 
A  lump  of  ice  in  the  clear,  cold  moon ; 

Canst  thou  its  hidden  sense  impart  ? 
A  cheerful  look  and  a  broken  heart. 


98  FRIENDS. 


FRIENDS. 


FRIEND  after  friend  departs  ; 

Who  hath  not  lost  a  friend  ? 
There  is  no  union  here  of  hearts 

That  finds  not  here  an  end  : 
Were  this  frail  world  our  only  rest,  — 
Living  or  dying,  none  were  blest. 

Beyond  the  flight  of  time, 

Beyond  this  vale  of  death, 
There  surely  is  some  blessed  clime, 

Where  life  is  not  a  breath  ; 
Nor  life's  affections  transient  fire, 
Whose  sparks  fly  upward  to  expire. 

There  is  a  world  above, 

Where  parting  is  unknown,  — 
A  whole  eternity  of  love, 

Formed  for  the  good  alone  ; 
And  faith  beholds  the  dying  here 
Translated  to  that  happier  sphere. 

Thus  star  by  star  declines, 

Till  all  are  passed  away, 
As  morning  high  and  higher  shines 

To  pure  and  perfect  day  : 
Nor  sink  those  stars  in  empty  night  ; 
They  hide  themselves  in  heaven's  own  light. 


& 


SUBMISSION. 


99 


SUBMISSION. 


I  WOULD  not  ask  a  thornless  life, 

From  every  sorrow  free, 
Did  God,  in  his  kind  providence, 

Permit  it  so  to  be. 

For  as  the  verdure  of  the  earth 

Would  wither  and  decay, 
Beneath  the  dazzling  gloriousness 

Of  a  perpetual  day, — 

So  the  green  places  of  the  heart, 

In  life's  progressive  years, 
Would  cease  to  yield  the  buds  of  hope, 

If  watered  not  by  tears. 

1  ask  a  firm  and  steadfast  mind, 

My  duties  to  fulfil  ; 
A  cheerful  and  obedient  heart, 

To  do  my  Master's  will ;  — 

An  humble  and  enduring  faith, 

To  lift  my  soul  above, 
And  in  each  chastening  grief  to  see 

A  Father's  tender  love  ;  — 

A  heaven-born  strength,  to  follow  on 

The  path  the  Savior  trod, 
Through  him  to  win  the  meed  of  grace, 
And  endless  joy  with  God. 


100  THE    DISSATISFIED    SPIRIT. 


THE  DISSATISFIED   SPIRIT. 


GOD  "  bowed  the  heavens,  and  came  down,"  and 
breathed  upon  the  earth,  and  a  living  soul  was  born. 
It  was  not  an  angel  to  watch  over  the  destinies  of 
man,  and  interpose  its  white  wing  between  him  and 
evil,  but  it  was  a  thing  as  lovely,  and  it  looked 
about  to  find  itself  a  dwelling-place.  While  it 
paused  in  doubt,  there  came  fluttering  by  a  gay, 
beautiful  creature,  its  bright  wings  woven  in  the 
loom  from  which  the  iris  sprung,  all  glittering  in 
gold  and  crimson,  now  bathing  in  the  dew,  and  now 
in  the  sunlight,  brilliant  and  blithesome,  and  light 
as  the  air  on  which  it  balanced.  The  spirit  grew 
glad  at  the  pretty  sight  ;  and  as  the  tiny  wonder 
again  swept  by,  it  thought  within  itself,  "  What  a 
delightful  thing  to  be  a  butterfly  !  "  Instantly  a 
pair  of  gorgeous  wings  sprouted  from  the  wish,  and 
the  embodied  spirit  flew  exultingly  up  arid  down 
the  earth,  careering  in  the  light,  and  glorying  in  its 
new-found  beauties.  Sometimes  it  paused  to  peep 
into  the  hearts  of  the  young  flowers,  and  sipped 
daintily  the  sweets  which  dwelt  on  their  fresh  lips, 
and  fanned  them  when  they  drooped,  and  bathed  in 
=-^.—  _ =@ 


THE    DISSATISFIED    SPIRIT.  101 

their  perfume  ;  and  at  night  it  folded  up  its  wings, 
and  made  its  couch  where  the  moonbeams  lay  most 
lovingly.  But  it  could  not  sleep.  That  was  a 
breath  from  heaven  stirring  those  gorgeous  wings, 
the  living  soul  within  struggling,  conscious  that  it 
was  not  performing  its  mission.  There  could  not 
be  a  brighter  nor  gayer  life,  and  surely  the  innocent 
little  butterfly  was  not  guilty  of  doing  harm  ;  but 
there  was  a  chiding  voice  that  came  up  from  with- 
in, and  the  dissatisfied  spirit  could  not  sleep.  Fi- 
nally it  grew  sorrowful,  even  in  the  midst  of  its 
light  companions,  all  intoxicated  by  the  mere  bliss 
of  living.  And  every  day  it  grew  more  and  more 
sorrowful,  and  its  wings  heavier,  till  at  last  it  cried 
out  in  sharp  anguish.  Beautiful  and  innocent  was 
the  life  of  the  gay  insect ;  but  the  God-born  spirit 
was  not  created  to  waste  itself  on  a  sunbeam  or  a 
flower,  and  those  magnificent  wings  were  leaden 
fetters  to  it.  A  bird  was  caroling  on  the  tree 
above,  and  as  the  saddened  spirit  looked  up,  it 
thought  of  the  happy  hearts  the  little  songster 
made,  and  how  it  praised  God  in  its  light  joyous- 
ness,  and  then  exclaimed,  pantingly,  "What  a 
sweet  thing  to  be  a  bird  !  " 

A  little  child  found  a  dead  butterfly  at  the  foot 
of -the  red  maple-tree  that  morning,  and  as  she 
stooped  to  pick  it  up,  there  came  such  a  gush  of 
melody  from  the  green  above,  that  she  started  back 
in  pleased  astonishment ;  and  then,  clapping  her 
soft  hands  together,  she  raised  her  infantile  voice  in 


102  THE    DISSATISFIED    SPIRIT. 

clear,  ringing  tones,  fraught  with  the  music  of  a 
mirthful  heart.  On  the  instant,  there  came  a  rus- 
tling sound  from  the  massive  foliage.  A  pair  of 
beautiful  wings  broke  thence,  and  balanced  for  a 
moment  above,  then  descended,  hovering  about  the 
head  of  the  child,  as  though  bestowing  some  word- 
less blessing,  and  finally  spread  themselves  for 
flight.  The  bird  paused  where  the  laborer  rested 
at  noontide,  and  the  eye  of  the  strong  man  bright- 
ened as  he  wiped  the  sweat  away,  and  leaned 
against  the  rugged  bark  of  the  meadow-tree,  yield- 
ing himself  up  to  the  delicious  influence  of  its 
music.  Then  it  flew  to  the  casement  of  the  in- 
valid, and  thence  to  the  roof-tree  of  the  cotter, 
and'  thence  it  still  pursued  its  way,  kindly  and  lov- 
ingly, pausing  to  warble  a  moment  even  by  the 
barred  window  of  the  criminal.  For  many  a  day 
the  bird-embodied  spirit  was  happy  and  contented, 
and  believed  itself  sent  upon  earth  but  for  the  pur- 
pose of  winning  men,  by  such  small,  sweet  efforts, 
from  sorrow. 

But,  as  it  nestled  one  night  in  the  foliage  of  the 
forest  tree,  there  came  a  sad  misgiving  to  trouble  it. 
It  had  heard  of  a  nobler  mission  than  it  had  yet 
dared  to  contemplate.  It  had  looked  into  a  path 
toilsome  and  difficult  to  walk  in,  strewn  with 
thorns  and  beset  with  dangers,  but  yet  glorious  in 
that  it  had  been  trodden  by  a  holy  One,  who  had 
linked  it  to  heaven.  The  timid  spirit  trembled  as  it 
thought,  and  folded  its  soft  pinions  over  its  breast, 


(q. 

THE    DISSATISFIED    SPIRIT.  103 

and  strove  to  recollect  all  the  good  it  had  done  that 
day.  It  thought  how  it  had  softened  the  nature  of 
the  sinful,  and  dropped  balm  into  the  bosom  of  the 
sorrowing ;  but  it  could  not  shut  down  the  high 
aspirations  which  were  swelling  within  it.  It  knew 
well  that  the  spirit  of  the  little  bird  was  not  like 
itself,  an  emanation  from  the  Deity.  When  the 
song  was  hushed  and  the  plumage  drooped,  that 
spirit  would  go  downward  to  the  earth ;  but  the 
living  soul,  born  of  the  breath  of  the  Almighty, 
could  not  so  perish.  Should  it  fling  aside  its  loftier 
gifts,  and  take  upon  itself  the  mission  (sweet  and 
beautiful  though  that  mission  might  be)  of  the 
soulless  bird  ?  "  Ah,  no !  "  thought  the  pretty 
warbler,  while  its  wings  seemed  swelling  to  eagle's 
pinions,  "  the  air  is  full  of  birds,  the  world  is  ring- 
ing with  melody.  It  is  delightful  to  swell  the  care- 
free chorus ;  but  there  is  a  higher,  nobler  mission 
still."  As  its  breast  heaved  with  these  new  emo- 
tions, a  soft  sound,  as  of  a  lute,  stole  up  from  a 
neighboring  grove,  and  an  exquisitely  modulated 
voice,  with  deep  earnestness,  clothed  its  secret 
thoughts  in  words  :  — 

"  I  waste  no  more  in  idle  dreams  my  life,  my  soul  away  ; 
I  wake  to  know  my  better  self,  I  wake  to  watch  and  pray. 
Thought,  feeling,  time,  on  idols  vain  I've  lavished  all  too  long  ; 
Henceforth  to  holier  purposes  I  pledge  myself,  my  song. 
O,  still  within  the  inner  veil,  upon  the  spirit's  shrine, 
Still  unprofaned  by  evil,  burns  the  one  pure  spark  divine 
Which  God  has  kindled  in  us  all ;  and  be  it  mine  to  tend, 
Henceforth,  with  vestal  thought  and  care,  the  light  that  lamp  may 
lend. 


104  THE    DISSATISFIED    SPIRIT. 

I  know  my  soul  is  strong  and  high,  if  once  I  give  it  sway ; 

I  feel  a  glorious  power  within,  though  light  I  seem,  and  gay. 

O  laggard  soul !  unclose  thine  eyes ;  no  more  in  luxury  soft 

Of  joy  ideal  waste  thyself !     Awake,  and  soar  aloft ; 

Unfurl  this  hour  those  falcon  wings  which  thou  dost  fold  too  long, 

liaise  to  the  skies  thy  lightning  gaze,  and  sing  the  loftiest  song." 

The  song  ceased,  and  the  struggling,  God-born 
spirit  looked  down  on  the  cold  earth  ;  and  not  for- 
getting toil,  and  suffering,  and  weariness,  —  not  for- 
getting the  degradation  of  sin,  and  the  constant 
wrestling  of  the  higher  with  the  baser  nature,  — 
exclaimed,  with  deep  enthusiasm,  "  What  a  sublime 
thing  to  be  a  man  !  " 

A  songster  was  missed  from  the  woodland,  and 
that  same  day  knelt  one  in  prayer ;  and  then,  hum- 
ble but  strong,  and  happier  far  than  butterfly  or 
bird,  went  cheerfully  forth  on  man's  great  mission 

TO    DO    GOOD. 


@  = 

MAY    MORNING.  105 


MAY  MORNING. 


THE  bright  May  morning  's  come  again 

With  balmy  air  and  showers, 
And  through  the  wood  and  in  the  glen 

Is  borne  the  breath  of  flowers. 

And  music  floats  upon  the  air, 

And  sighs  along  the  plain  ; 
The  feathered  songsters  every  where 

Pour  forth  their  gladsome  strain. 

Maidens  and  youths,  come,  hail  the  morn, 

The  birth  of  winsome  May ; 
Come,  twine  ye  garlands  to  adorn 

Your  brows  this  bright  spring  day. 

Blue  violets  are  over  all  the  plain, 

And  cowslips  by  the  brook  — 
Come,  gather  for  love's  fairy  chain 

From  every  dell  and  nook. 

And  as  ye  twine  your  fragrant  wreath 

And  sing  your  merry  lay, 
Let  each  young,  thrilling  bosom  breathe 

A  welcome  to  sweet  May. 


106  TO    A    FLOWER. 


TO  A  FLOWER. 

DAWN,  gentle  flower, 
From  the  morning  earth ! 

We  will  gaze  and  wonder 
At  thy  wondrous  birth  ! 

Bloom,  gentle  flower ! 

Lover  of  the  light, 
Sought  by  wind  and  shower, 

Fondled  by  the  night ! 

Fade,  gentle  flower ! 

All  thy  white  leaves  close  ; 
Having  shown  thy  beauty, 

Time  'tis  for  repose. 

Die,  gentle  flower, 

In  the  silent  sun  ! 
So,  —  all  pangs  are  over, 

All  thy  tasks  are  done  ! 

Day  hath  no  more  glory, 
Though  he  soars  so  high  ; 

Thine  is  all  man's  story  — 
Live,  —  but  droop,  —  and  die  ! 


THE  FLOWER  AND  THE  TREE.  107 


THE  FLOWER  AND  THE  TREE. 


THERE  was  a  verdant  little  spot, 

By  clustering  ivies  sweetly  shaded, 
Velveted  o'er  with  living  moss, 

And  lit  by  stars  that  never  faded. 
A  flower  in  the  sweet  spot  sprang  up, 

And  grew  until  its  bloom  was  bright ; 
Then,  in  its  prime,  it  sadly  drooped, 

And  closed  its  soft  leaves  on  the  light. 
A  poet  told  its  history,  as  he  passed  by,  and  sighed  : 
"  A  flower  sprang  up   amid   the   moss,  and  grew,  and 
bloomed,  and  died." 

Ere  Winter  forged  his  glittering  chains, 

Where  the  young  flower  had  drooped  its  head, 
Nature  another  child  brought  forth, 

And  nursed  it  on  the  same  soft  bed. 
It  grew  —  and  as  the  years  flew  by, 

New  strength  was  added,  beauty  given  ; 
Until,  a  mighty  tree,  its  top 

Was  mingled  with  the  gray  of  heaven. 
Again  the  poet  struck  his  lyre,  and  woods  and  groves 

replied, 
"  For  ages  shall  the  tree  survive,  majestic  in  its  pride." 


—         •(§) 

108          THE  FLOWER  AND  THE  TREE. 

That  mossy,  cool  spot  is  my  heart, 

And  love,  the  heaven-tinted  flower  ; 
It  grew  —  it  bloomed — then  withered,  died, 

And  passed  away,  in  one  brief  hour. 
Though  other  flowers  were  bright  and  sweet, 

The  beauty  of  the  scene  was  gone  : 
Love  perished  —  every  hope  was  dead  ; 

The  solemn  soul  was  all  alone. 
A    flower    sprang  up    amid   the    moss,    and    grew,   and 

bloomed,  and  died. 

Love  perished    in  a   youthful    heart,   and   all  was  dead 
beside. 

But  soon  a  tree,  above  the  place, 

Shadowed  the  floweret's  quiet  grave  ; 
So,  when  the  flowers  of  love  have  closed, 
The  leaves  of  friendship  kindly  wave. 
So  every  year  but  addeth  strength  ; 

The  frailer  love  hath  passed  forever  — 
Less  bright,  but  more  enduring  far, 

The  bloom  of  friendship  withereth  never. 
Love  sprang  forth  in  a  passionate  heart,  it   grew,  and 

bloomed,  and  died  ; 

But  friendship's  tree  still   stately  waves,  majestic  in  its 
pride  ! 


THE    INVISIBLE    RING.  109 


THE  INVISIBLE  RING. 


IN  early  life  I  often  felt  a  strong  desire  to  be  able 
to  make  myself  invisible,  that  I  might  visit  the 
abodes  of  men  without  their  knowledge  of  my 
presence,  and  thereby  learn  in  what  state  true  con- 
tentment was  to  be  found.  Being  seated,  one  lovely 
afternoon,  beneath  a  spreading  elm,  wholly  lost  in 
the  all-absorbing  subject,  the  good  little  fairy  who 
presided  at  my  birth  suddenly  made  her  appear- 
ance. 

"  You  have  long  been  importuning  me,"  said  she, 
"  for  the  power  to  become  invisible,  that  you  might 
discover  the  secret  dwelling  of  content.  I  now 
present  you  with  a  ring,  which  can  never  be  per- 
ceived by  any  one  but  yourself,  and  which  will 
enable  you  to  pass  through  crowds  unseen,  when 
placed  upon  your  finger  ;  but  on  these  conditions 
only  will  it  avail  you  aught — that  you  never  divulge 
your  secret  to  any  living  mortal,  nor  use  its  power 
for  any  improper  purpose,  so  long  as  you  wish  for 
its  services." 

She  ceased  speaking,  and  on  raising  my  eyes  I 
found  she  had  disappeared ;  but  the  beautiful  ring 
lay  in  my  lap.  Feeling  somewhat  impatient  to  test 

— = 


110  THE    INVISIBLE    RING. 

its  power,  I  placed  it  upon  my  finger,  and  sallied 
forth  to  "  take  observations."  The  first  dwelling  I 
entered  was  in  a  very  retired  spot,  and  though 
somewhat  uninviting  in  its  external  appearance,  I 
hoped  the  best  and  noblest  qualities  of  the  human 
mind  might  there  be  ripening  for  a  blessed  eternity; 
but  the  first  sounds  that  met  my  ear  were  the  pet- 
ulant complaints  of  the  wife,  and  the  harsh,  vulgar 
taunts  of  the  husband.  Three  or  four  children 
occupied  another  part  of  the  room,  and  were  quar- 
relling among  themselves,  making  a  sad  symphony 
to  the  tones  of  the  parents.  I  turned  away  in  sor- 
row at  the  thought  that  here,  in  this  secluded  place, 
the  violent  passions  should  have  found  an  entrance. 
Passing  farther  on,  I  next  came  to  a  splendid 
mansion,  the  country  seat  of  an  opulent  gentleman 
in  the  city.  Every  thing  that  met  the  eye  was 
delightful.  The  grounds  were  tastefully  arranged, 
the  finely-shaded  walks  were  deliciously  cool  and 
refreshing,  and  the  garden  filled  with  the  rarest 
plants  and  flowers.  I  hastily  passed  along,  impa- 
tient to  see  the  happy  inmates  of  such  a  delightful 
place.  On  stepping  in,  I  found,  as  I  expected, 
every  thing  in  perfect  keeping  with  the  exterior  — 
all  was  rich  and  elegant  ;  but  on  entering  a  superb 
parlor,  how  soon  did  the  pleasure  I  had  anticipated 
vanish !  There  sat  the  mistress,  surrounded  by 
every  thing  a  rational  being  could  desire,  pouring 
forth  her  complaints  in  the  ear  of  a  poor  dependent 
relative,  who  was  sitting  hard  by.  The  servants 


THE    INVISIBLE    RING.  Ill 

were  unfaithful,  dishonest,  disobliging.  There  was 
nothing  worth  looking  at  if  she  went  out,  and 
nothing  to  interest  her  within  ;  and  worse  yet,  the 
fashionable  season  for  returning  to  the  city  was 
still  some  weeks  distant,  and  how  could  she  exist 
in  this  dull  place  so  long  ?  At  the  window,  in  a 
recess,  sat  the  master,  yawning  and  half  asleep, 
apparently  incapable  of  enjoying  any  thing  not  con- 
nected with  the  rise  of  stocks,  unless,  perhaps,  a 
feeling  of  pride  at  having  decidedly  the  most  splen- 
did country  residence  in  the  parts  might  afford  him 
an  enviable  gleam  of  pleasure  occasionally.  I  need 
hardly  say,  that  nowhere  in  this  establishment  was 
content  to  be  found. 

Disappointed,  but  not  discouraged,  I  bent  my 
steps  towards  a  pretty,  neat  cottage,  not  far  distant, 
where  every  thing  wore  the  appearance  of  real 
comfort  without,  and  not  less  so  within.  Neatness, 
order,  and  frugality,  shone  conspicuously  in  every 
apartment.  The  mistress,  a  blooming  matron  of 
thirty-five,  surrounded  by  a  group  of  sweet  little 
chubby  faces,  was  busily  employed  in  the  various 
duties  of  wife,  mother,  and  thorough  housekeeper. 
Though  of  a  qniet  turn  of  mind,  she  never  shrunk 
from  the  assigned  path  of  duty,  however  arduous. 
Difficulties  only  aroused  her  energies,  and  invigo- 
rated her  resolution.  The  gay  world  around  had 
no  charms  for  her.  Her  heart  was  at  home.  Here 
she  felt  she  was  most  useful  arid  happy.  I  regretted 
that  the  husband  and  father  of  this  interesting 


112  THE    INVISIBLE    RING. 

household  was  absent  for  the  day  ;  but  I  could 
easily  perceive  by  the  frequent  and  earnest  inquiries 
of  the  children,  and  the  delighted  replies  of  the 
mother,  that  he  was  their  all  in  all  on  earth,  and 
their  guide  to  heaven.  Before  leaving  this  blest 
abode,  I  gave  one  scrutinizing  glance  around.  A 
well-earned  competency  was  all  they  could  boast, 
and  that  had  taught  them  how  to  live,  and  had 
given  them  health  to  enjoy  the  reward  of  honest 
industry.  Here  it  was  I  found  content.  From 
this  place  I  bent  my  steps  homeward,  exclaiming, 
as  I  meditated  on  what  I  had  seen,  "  Lord,  give  me 
neither  poverty  nor  riches,"  but  rather  a  grateful 
heart  and  contented  mind. 

Reader,  my  wish  has  been  gratified.     I  have  dis- 
closed my  secret,  and  my  ring  is  gone  forever. 


WHAT    A   WORLD    THIS    MIGHT    BE. 


WHAT  A  WORLD  THIS  MIGHT  BE. 


O,  WHAT  a  world  this  might  be, 
If  hearts  were  always  kind  ; 

If,  friendship,  none  would  slight  thee, 
And  fortune  proved  less  blind  !  — 

With  love's  own  voice  to  guide  us  — 
Unchanging  e'er  and  fond  — 

With  all  we  wish  beside  us, 
And  not  a  care  beyond. 

O,  what  a  world  this  might  be  ! 

More  blest  than  that  of  yore  : 
Come,  learn,  and  'twill  requite  ye, 

To  love  each  other  more. 

O,  what  a  world  of  beauty 
A  loving  heart  might  plan, 

If  man  but  did  his  duty, 

And  helped  his  brother  man  ! 

Then  angel  guests  would  brighten 
The  threshold  with  their  wings, 

And  love  divine  enlighten 
The  old  forgotten  springs. 


114  A  LADY'S  VALENTINE. 


A  LADY'S  VALENTINE. 

The  following  was  found  in  one  of  the  streets  of  Boston,  the  senti- 
ment of  which  is  too  good  to  he  lost. 

I  WOULD  be  thine  ! 
Ah  !  not  to  learn  the  anguish 
Of  being  first  a  deity  enshrined, 
Then,  when  the  fever-fit  is  passed,  to  languish, 
Stripped  of  each  grace  that  fancy  round  me  twined : 

Not  such  the  lot  I  crave. 

I  would  be  thine  ! 

* 

Not  in  bright  summer  weather, 
A  sunny  atmosphere  to  breathe, 
But  fear  and  tremble  when  the  storm-clouds  gather, 
And  shrink  life's  unrelenting  frown  beneath, 
Failing  when  needed  most. 

I  would  be  thine  ! 
To  lose  all  selfish  feeling 
In  the  sole  thought  of  thee,  far  dearer  one, 
To  study  every  look  thy  will  revealing, 
To  make  thy  voice's  ever-varying  tone 

The  music  of  my  heart. 

I  would  be  thine  ! 
When  sickness  doth  oppress  thee, 
With  love's  unwearied  vigilance  to  watch  ; 
Waking,  to  soothe,  to  comfort,  to  caress  thee  ; 
Sleeping,  to  list  in  dread,  each  sound  to  catch, 

Thy  slumbers  that  might  break. 

>  (£) 


A  LADY'S  VALENTINE.  115 

I  would  be  thine  ! 
When  vexed  by  worldly  crosses 
To  cheer  thee  with  affection's  constant  care, 
To  stay  thee,  'neath  the  burden  of  thy  losses, 
By  showing  thee  how  deeply  thou  art  dear, 

Most  so  in  thy  distress. 

I  would  be  thine ! 
Gently  and  unrepining 

To  bear  with  thee,  when  chafed  and  spirit-worn, 
The  hasty  word,  the  quick  reproach  denying 
But  by  the  soft  submission,  which  is  borne 

Of  steadfast  love  alone. 

I  would  be  thine  !  • 

My  world  in  thee  to  centre, 

With  all  its  hopes,  cares,  fears,  and  loving  thought, 
No  wish  beyond  the  home  where  thou  shouldst  enter, 
Ever  anew  to  find  thy  presence  brought 

My  life's  best  joy. 

I  would  be  thine  ! 
Not  passion's  wild  emotion 
To  show  thee,  fitful  as  the  changing  wind, 
But  with  a  still,  deep,  fervent  life-devotion, 
To  be  to  thee  the  help-meet  God  designed  — 

For  this  would  I  be  thine  ! 


116  HOW    MUCH   THERE    IS    THAT'S    BEAUTIFUL. 


HOW  MUCH  THERE  IS  THAT'S  BEAUTIFUL. 


How  much  there  is  that's  beautiful 

In  this  fair  world  of  ours  ! 
The  verdure  of  the  early  spring, 

The  sweetly  blooming  flowers, 
The  brook  that  dances  in  the  light, 

The  birds  that  carol  free, 
.  Are  objects  beautiful  and  bright, 

That  every  where  we  see. 

There's  beauty  in  the  early  morn, 

When  all  is  hushed  and  still  — 
And  at  the  lovely  sunset  hour, 

'Tis  spread  o'er  vale  and  hill  — 
It  lives  within  the  gorgeous  clouds. 

That  float  along  the  sky  — * 
•  And  O,  how  purely  beautiful 

Our  evening  canopy  ! 

It  dwells  in  quiet  stillness  where 

The  glassy  waters  glide, 
And  wakes  to  awful  grandeur  'neath 

The  cataract's  foaming  tide  ; 
'Tis  throned  in  dark,  stern  majesty, 

Where  the  tall  mountain  towers. 
0,  there  is  beauty  every  where 

In  this  bright  world  of  ours. 


FRIENDSHIP.  117 


The  fairy  spell  that  childhood  wears, 

Its  artlessness  and  truth, 
The  light  that  lives  within  the  eye 

And  in  the  smile  of  youth, 
The  impress  on  the  manly  brow, 

Wrought  with  the  shade  of  care, 
That  tells  of  high  and  noble  thought, 

How  beautiful  they  are ! 

And  life  —  how  much  is  shed  around, 

To  bless  and  cheer  us  here, 
When  strength  and  energy  are  found 

Its  lesser  ills  to  bear  ! 
Although  a  cloud  may  sometimes  rise, 

A  shadow  sometimes  rest 
Upon  our  earthly  pathway,  still 

'Tis  beautiful  and  blessed. 


FRIENDSHIP, 


OUR  viewless  boundary  is  a  chain 
That  passeth  through  each  heart, 

That,  lengthened,  soon  contracts  again, 

That,  rent,  is  always  rent  in  vain  ; 

The  links  are  loadstones  to  the  train, 
And  can't  be  kept  apart  I 


=© 

118  THEY   AWOKE    IN    HEAVEN. 


THEY  AWOKE  IN  HEAVEN. 

Translated  from  the  German. 

Wife.     THOU  hast  slept  well  ? 

Husband.  As  never  before.  Not  even  in  child- 
hood did  I  experience  such  a  deep,  soft,  refreshing 
slumber.  My  old  father,  —  thou  rememberest  him 
well,  —  when  he  stepped  into  the  room  in  the  morn- 
ing, where  we  were  waiting  for  him,  used  to  say,  in 
answer  to  our  inquiry  how  he  had  slept,  "  Like  the 
blessed."  Like  the  blessed,  I  might  say,  have  I 
slept ;  or,  rather,  like  the  blessed  have  I  awakened. 
I  feel  myself  new  quickened,  as  if  all  weariness, 
and  all  need  of  sleep,  were  gone  forever.  Such 
vigor  is  in  my  limbs,  such  elasticity  in  my  move- 
ments, that  I  believe  I  could  fly,  if  I  would. 

W.  And  you  are  pleased  with  this  place  ? 

H.  Indeed,  I  must  say  we  have  been  in  many  a 
beautiful  place  together  ;  but  this  is  wonderful  and 
beautiful  beyond  description.  What  trees,  actually 
heaven  high  !  They  bear  blossoms  and  fruit  to- 
gether. Their  branches,  swaying  to  the  morning 
wind,  cause  the  tree  tops  all  to  give  forth  melody, 
as  if  a  host  of  feathered  singers  dwelt  in  them. 
Behind  the  trees  the  mountains  tower  up,  their 
majestic  forms  rigidly  denned  in  the  pure  air ;  and 
here  and  there  clouds,  glowing  with  all  the  hues  of 
(9)  ( 


— @ 

THEY    AWOKE    IN    HEAVEN.  119 

sunrise  and  sunset,  stretch  along  their  sides,  or  float 
over  their  summits.  Upon  the  highest  peak,  out 
of  a  milk-white,  translucent,  shimmering  mist,  there 
spring,  as  it  were,  the  gates,  and  towers,  and  palaces 
of  a  splendid  city.  From  this  peak  nearest  us, 
there  seems  to  gush  a  mighty  water,  which  I  may 
call  a  sea  rather  than  a  stream,  and  which,  never- 
theless, leaps  down  the  numerous  terraces  of  the 
mountain,  not  with  fearful  roaring,  but  with  a 
melodious  sound.  Wide  about  us  are  sprinkled  the 
drops  which  water  the  trees  and  flowers,  and  impart 
a  delicious  coolness  to  the  air,  making  it  ecstasy  to 
breathe  here.  Look,  too,  at  this  bank  whereon  we 
stand !  How  luxuriant,  and  how  thickly  strown 
with  wonderful  flowers !  We  wander  over  it,  and 
yet  the  spires  of  grass  are  not  broken,  nor  are  the 
flowers  crushed  by  our  footsteps.  It  is  a  solitary 
place  ;  yet  on  all  sides  vistas  open  to  us,  and  the 
horizon  tempts  us  ever  farther  and  farther  on. 

W.  Hast  thou  seen  all  this  often  before,  or  dost 
thou  see  it  to-day  for  the  first  time  ? 

H.  Notwithstanding  all  is  so  homelike  to  me 
here,  and  though  every  thing  greets  me  as  some- 
thing long  beloved,  yet  when  I  think  of  it,  I  must 
say,  "  No,  I  have  never  been  here  before." 

W.  And  dost  thou  not  wonder  to  see  me  again 
at  thy  side  ? 

H.  Indeed ;  and  hast  thou  not  somehow  always 
been  near  me  ? 

W.  In  a  certain  sense,  I  have  ;  but  in  another, 


120  THEY    AWOKE    IN    HEAVEN. 

not  so.     It  is  long  since  thine  eyes  have  seen  me. 
I  disappeared  from  them  once. 

H.  Ah  !  now  there  sweeps  over  my  memory,  as 
it  were,  a  dark  cloud  —  days  of  anxiety,  and  nights 
spent  in  weeping  —  only  the  painful  thoughts  and 
emotions  which  so  recently  absorbed  me.  Now 
they  elude  my  grasp.  I  cannot  distinctly  compre- 
hend them.  They  appear  to  me  something  mys- 
terious. 

W.  Think  on  the  fourteenth  of  February. 

H.  How  now  !  it  is  all  clear  to  me.  It  was  near 
noon.  Four  days  hadst  thou  been  sick.  We  had 
feared  much  for  thee,  but  still  had  hope.  Sud- 
denly a  faintness  came  over  thee.  Thou  didst  lean 
thy  head  upon  my  breast,  didst  sink  back  with  a 
deep  sigh.  Thou  diedst  —  yes,  it  is  all  over.  Thou 
art  dead. 

W.  I  am  dead ;  yet  see,  I  live  ! 

H.  If  thou  art  dead,  and  if  I  see  thee,  then  do  I 
really  dream? 

W.  Thou  dreamest  not,  for  thou  art  awake. 

H.  Or,  art  thou  sent  down  from  heaven  to  earth, 
that  I  should  see  thee  again  for  a  short  time,  and 
then  anew,  through  long  years,  lament  thy  disap- 
pearance ? 

W.  No  ;  henceforth  we  shall  never  separate.  I 
am  indeed  sent  to  thee,  but  not  down  upon  the 
earth.  Look  around  thee  here.  Where  upon  earth 
hast  thou  seen  such  trees  —  such  waters  ?  Look  at 
thyself.  Thou  didst  go  about  yonder,  bowed  be- 


THEY   AWOKE    IN    HEAVEN.  121 

rieath  the  weight  of  years.  Now  thou  art  young 
again.  Thou  dost  not  walk  —  thou  floatest.  Thine 
eyes  not  only  see,  but  see  immeasurably  far.  Look 
inward  upon  thyself.  Has  it  always  been  with  thy 
heart  as  now  ? 

H.  Within  me  is  a  deep,  unfathomable,  ever- 
swelling,  and  yet  entirely  still  and  peaceful  sea. 
Yes,  when  I  look  about  me  here,  and  when  I  feel 
thy  hand  in  mine,  then  I  must  say  I  am  blessed,  I 
am  in  heaven. 

W.  Thou  art. 

H.  And  then  must  I  be  actually  dead  ? 

W.  Thou  art.  Hast  thou  not  lain  sick  in  that 
very  chamber  where  I  died,  and  whither  thou  didst 
long  to  be  brought?  Has  not  thy  son,  day  and 
night,  without  leaving  thy  side,  sincerely  and  ten- 
derly nursed  thee  ?  Hast  thou  not  by  day  and 
night  found  open  the  blue  eye  of  thy  daughter,  in 
which  she  vainly  strove  to  hold  back  the  forth- 
welling  tears?  Were  there  not  then  a  deep  mist 
and  utter  darkness  spread  over  the  faces  of  thy 
children,  and  over  every  thing  around  thee? 

H.  I  AM  DEAD  !  Lord  of  life  and  death,  upon 
my  knees  I  thank  thee  that  thou  hast  fulfilled  this 
so  great  thing  in  me,  that  thou  hast  led  me  to  such 
high  happiness,  to  such  great  honor  —  dead,  and 
happy  to  be  dead  !  Thou  knowest,  O  Lord,  how 
often  that  moment  stood  before  me  ;  how  often  I 
have  prayed  that  thou  thyself,  since  I  was  not  able 
to  do  it,  wouldst  prepare  me  for  that  hour ;  that 

..  = 


122  THEY   AWOKE    IN    HEAVEN. 

thou  wouldst  send  me  a  soft,  blessed  death.     Now, 

0  Lord,  that  thou  hast  heard  this,  as  all  my  other 
prayers,  thou  hast  in  this,  as  in  all  things,  eternally 
shown  thyself  gracious  and  pitiful.      What  stood 
before  me  is   now  over.     Truly,   though  dead,  I 
have  not  yet  learned  exactly  what  death  is ;  but 
this  much  I  know,  death  is  sweet.     As  one  bears  a 
sleeping  child  out  of  a  dark  chamber  into  a  bright 
spring  garden,  so  hast  thou  borne  me  from  earth  to 
heaven.  But  now,  loved  one,  hold  me  no  longer  back. 

W.  Whither  wouldst  thou  go  ? 

H.  Canst  thou  ask  ?  To  whom  else  but  to 
Him  ?  All  is  beautiful  and  lovely  here  —  these 
trees,  these  flowers,  this  down-streaming  water,  this 
coolness  which  breathes  over  flowers  and  trees,  and 
deep  into  my  heart ;  thyself,  thy  presence,  which, 
after  so  long  a  separation,  after  so  many  tears,  I 
enjoy  again  ;  —  but  not  even  all  this  satisfies  me. 
HIMSELF  I  must  see.  Let  him  adorn  his  heaven  as 
beautifully  as  he  may,  that  cannot  compensate  for 
the  loss  of  his  presence.  What  was  impossible,  he 
has  made  possible.  So  long,  so  unweariedly,  so 
faithfully  has  he  worked  in  me,  that  I  might  be 
capable  of  bliss  !  Even  before  I  was  born,  he  chose 
me.  Where  is  the  little  earth  ?  Yonder  it  spins, 
how  far  from  here !  In  what  darkness  it  is  veiled  ! 

1  would  not  again  return  to  it.     He  has  conde- 
scended to  go  down  thither,  has  trod  its  dust  with 
his  sacred  feet,  has  endured  hunger  and  thirst,  has 
died.     Ah  !  he  will  quicken  my  vision,  that  I  may 


THEY   AWOKE    IN    HEAVEN.  123 

pierce  deeper  than  heretofore  the  abyss  of  his  death 
pains.  There  he  won  me  for  his  own  j  and,  that  I, 
his  dearly-purchased  one,  should  not  again  be  lost 
to  him,  he  has,  from  my  earliest  years,  given  me 
his  ceaseless  care.  Much  that  he  has  done  for  me 
have  I  already  learned  upon  the  earth.  Now  I 
know  more,  and  I  shall  know  still  more  in  the 
future,  when  together  we  recount  the  whole.  But 
now  I  have  no  time  for  this.  Emotion  within  me 
is  too  strong  ;  my  heart  will  burst ;  I  must  away  to 
him,  see  him,  thank  him,  if  I  am  capable  of  thank- 
ing him,  if  in  this  overpowering  bliss  thanksgiving 
be  not  swallowed  up. 

W.  Thou  wilt  see  him,  but  not  until  he  comes 
to  thee.  Until  then,  be  patient.  I  am  sent  to  thee, 
to  tell  thee  that  such  is  his  will. 

H.  Now  I  know  for  a  certainty  that  I  am  in 
heaven,  for  my  will  yields  itself  implicitly  to  his, 
without  a  struggle.  I  had  thought  it  wholly  insup- 
portable not  to  see  him  here.  Yet  I  not  only  bear 
it,  but  bear  it  cheerfully.  HE  wills  this,  I  will  it 
also.  Other  than  this  seems  now  impossible  to  me. 
So  readily  could  we  not  submit  below.  But  if  thou 
art  sent  to  me  from  him,  then  must  he  have  spoken 
with  thee.  He  has  already  spoken  many  words 
with  thee  ? 

W.  Already  many. 

H.  O  thou  truly  blessed  one !  Canst  thou  tell 
how  it  was  with  thee,  when  he  for  the  first  time 
spake  with  thee  ? 


124  THEY   AWOKE  IN    HEAVEN. 

W.  As  it  has  been  in  my  heart  each  following 
time.  I  am  using  an  earthly  language  with  thee, 
in  which  these  things  cannot  be  described. 

H.  As  thou  sawest  him  for  the  first  time,  didst 
thou  instantly  recognize  him  ? 

W.  Instantly. 

H.  How  ?  By  that  particular  glory  in  which 
he  outshines  all  angels  ? 

W.  He  has  no  need  to  clothe  himself  in  splen- 
dor. We  know  him  without  that. 

H.  Dost  thou  mean  that  I  will  immediately  rec- 
ognize him,  without  any  one  saying  to  me,  "  That 
is  he  "  ? 

W.  Thine  own  heart  will  tell  thee. 

H.  How  will  he  really  seem  to  me,  severe  or 
gentle  ?  Below,  when  I  cried  to  him  out  of  the 
darkness  of  my  earth  life,  he  often  answered  me 
with  sternness. 

W.  There  below,  he  is  constrained  to  do  this 
with  his  best  beloved.  Here,  it  is  no  longer  neces- 
sary. Here,  there  is  no  need  that  he  should  do 
violence  to  his  own  heart.  He  can  give  free,  ex- 
pression to  his  love.  This  love  is  infinite.  On 
earth  we  could  not  fathom  it ;  as  little  can  we  do  so 
here. 

H.  Do  there  exist  among  you  here  differences 
in  glory  and  blessedness? 

W.  In  endless  degrees  ;  but  then  the  highest  are 
even  as  the  most  lowly,  so  they  stoop  down  to  the 
humblest.  And  this  does  he  require  of  them  ;  for 


C0)  - -= 

THEY   AWOKE    IN    HEAVEN.  125 

He  who  ranks  above  the  highest  is  himself  the 
humblest  of  all.  So,  then,  these  diversities  become 
swallowed  up,  and  we  are  all  one  in  him. 

H.  Lo,  I  have  often  thought  me,  if  I  only 
reach  heaven,  only  dwell  not  with  the  enemies  of 
the  Lord,  I  shall  be  content  to  be  the  very  least  of 
all  there.  Thou,  methought,  wouldst  soar  in  a 
much  higher  circle,  and  our  children  also,  when 
they  left  the  earth.  But  then,  if,  only  once  in  a 
thousand  years,  I  might  be  counted  worthy  to  see  the 
Lord,  still,  methought  it  would  be  enough  for  me. 

W.  Be  trustful.  Whom  he  receives,  he  receives 
to  glory.  Knowest  thou  not  by  .what  wonderful 
way  he  has  called  us  in  his  word  ? 

H.  Well  do  I  know  all  that,  and  I  see  with 
what  glory  and  honor  he  has  crowned  thee.  Be- 
tween thine  image  in  thy  last  sickness  and  that 
which  now  stands  revealed  tome, — between  that 
perishable  flower,  and  the  heavenly  blossom,  —  what 
a  difference  !  No,  this  bloom  upon  thy  cheek  can 
never  fade,  this  light  in  thine  eyes  can  never  be 
dimmed.  Thy  form  shall  never  bear  the  impress 
of  age.  Thus  ever  wilt  thou  wander  about  with 
me  here  ;  thou  wilt  show  me  the  glory  of  these 
heavenly  mansions,  and  also  wilt  lead  me  to  those 
other  blessed  ones,  who  are  dear  to  me. 

W.  Thou  wilt  see  them  as  soon  as  thou  hast 
seen  the  LorcL 

H.  How  delightful  was  it  of  old,  when  we 
sought  our  aged  father  in  his  cot !  Our  carriage 

i —  _ 

!•- — __- --i _ — _ 

11* 


126  THEY   AWOKE    IN    HEAVEN. 

rolled  up,  all  came  running  out  before  the  house, 
and  among  the  whole  troop  we  sought  first  his  dear, 
honored  countenance.  How  much  more  delightful 
to  see  him  here !  He  whom  the  smallest  favor 
filled  with  thanks  to  the  giver,  who  could  find 
beauty  in  a  single  spire  of  grass,  who  smiled  at  a 
brighter  sunbeam,  who  went  forth  so  joyfully  under 
the  starry  heavens,  arid  adored  the  Creator  of  these 
worlds,  —  what  must  he  experience  here,  where  the 
wonders  of  Omnipotence  lie  all  open  and  unveiled 
before  him  !  He  who,  in  the  silent  joy  of  his 
heart,  thanked  the  Lord  for  his  beneficence,  and  for 
the  least  refreshing  which  was  granted  him  on  his 
weary  earth-way,  —  what  thanks  will  he  now  pour 
forth  to  his  Redeemer  !  "  We  shall  meet  again," 
he  said  to  me  in  his  last  sickness,  as  he  pressed 
my  hand  with  all  his  remaining  strength  — "  we 
shall  meet  again,  and  together  thank  God  for  his 
grace." 

W.   Thou  wilt  soon  see  him  and  thy  mother  also. 

H.  My  mother,  who  loved  me  with  such  un- 
speakable tenderness,  and  whom  I  have  never 
known  !  I  was  but  three  years  old  when  I  lost 
her.  As  she  lay  upon  her  death-bed,  and  I  was 
playing  in  the  garden  before  the  house,  "  What  will 
become  of  my  poor  child  ? "  she  cried.  Good 
mother !  all  that  a  man  can  be,  thy  son  has  become 
—  an  inhabitant  of  heaven.  Through  the  grace  of 
God  has  this  been  effected,  and  also  by  the  help  of 
thy  prayers.  Is  it  not  so  ? 


THEY   AWOKE    IN    HEAVEN.  127 

W.  It  is  even  so.  I  have  often  spoken  of  thee 
with  thy  father  and  mother. 

H.  Is  X here  ? 

W.  Yes. 

H.  I  had  not  expected  it.  That,  however,  was 
wrong.  Why  am  I  here  ?  But  the  dear  souls 
whom  I  left  behind  me  on  earth,  I  would  have  some 
tidings  of  them  ;  or  is  the  perception  of  them  lost 
to  us  until  the  moment  of  reunion  ? 

W.  This  question  thou  mayst  speedily  answer 
for  thyself.  Look  thither. 

H.  I  do  so,  but  I  see  nothing. 

W.  Look  longer  in  this  direction,  and  you  will 
surely  see.  Dost  thou  see  now? 

H.  Perfectly.  The  place  is  familiar  to  me.  It 
is  the  churchyard,  where  I  placed  thy  mortal  part, 
which  was  given  back  to  the  earth.  The  place 
became  dear  to  me.  I  often  sought  it,  and  kneel- 
ing upon  the  grave,  raised  my  eyes  hjtherward  to 
heaven,  where  we  both  are  now.  Among  beautiful 
trees  and  flowers,  I  thought,  may  she  be  wandering 
there;  among  trees  and  flowers  shall  her  body  rest 
here.  So  a  flower-garden  and  a  wilderness  of 
blossoms  sprang  up,  and  every  beautiful  thing 
which  the  anniversary  brought  with  it  adorned  thy 
grave. 

W.  I  knew  it  well.  Look  thitherward  now. 
What  seest  thou  ? 

H.  Near  thy  grave  another  is  open.  The  church- 
yard gate  stands  open  —  a  corpse  is  borne  forward 

@  ( 


128  THEY   AWOKE    IN    HEAVEN. 

—  our  children  follow.  Do  ye  weep,  loved  hearts, 
weep  so  bitterly  ?  Could  ye  see  us  as  we  see  you, 
ye  would  not  weep,  or,  at  the  most,  only  for  long- 
ing. The  body  —  my  body  —  is  lowered:  now 
they  cast  a  handful  of  dust  upon  the  coffin.  The 
grave  is  closed  ;  now  rests  my  dust  by  thine.  Go 
home  now,  ye  loved  ones,  and  may  the  foretaste  of 
that  heavenly  peace  which  we  enjoy  glide  to  your 
souls. .  But  return  hitherward  often,  and  seek  the 
grave  of  your  old  parents.  When  ye  meet  and 
pray  there,  we  will  be  near  you,  and  bring  you 
heavenly  gifts  from  the  Lord.  Henceforth,  take 
his  hand  as  ye  go.  He  will  guide  you  safely. 
Your  old  parents  have  proved  this  !  And  one  day 
will  he  bring  us  all  together  again. 

W.  Amen.     Thus  it  will  surely  be. 

H.  Hearest  thou  those  sounds  ?  What  may  it 
be  ?  Strange  and  wonderful,  like  the  mingled 
roaring  of  the  sea,  and  sweetest  flute  notes,  they 
come  from  that  quarter,  and  float  through  the  wide 
heaven.  Hark  !  now  from  the  other  side  melody 
arises,  a  wholly  different  note,  and  yet  just  as 
strange  and  enrapturing.  What  may  it  be  ? 

W.  They  are  angel  choirs,  which  from  immeas- 
urable distance  answer  one  another. 

H.  What  do  they  sing  ? 

W.  Ever  of  One,  who  is  the  theme  of  eternal 
arid  ceaseless  praise. 

H.  For  some  time,  already  a  form  moves  about 
there. 

==@ 


THEY   AWOKE    IN    HEAVEN.  129 

W.  Observe  it  more  closely,  and  then  tell  me 
why  it  attracts  thee  so. 

H.  Pardon  me,  who  am  so  lately  called  from  the 
earth,  an  earthly,  childish  comparison.  At  the 
home  where  I  was  born  —  thou  knowest  it  well, 
though  at  the  time  thou  wast  no  longer  upon  earth 
—  I  had  planted  a  garden.  As  the  spring  came,  I 
devoted  myself  to  its  cultivation,  and  enjoyed  my- 
self over  my  plants  and  their  beautiful  unfoldings. 
There  were  many  trees  there,  much  shrubbery,  and 
many  flowers  ;  yet  I  knew  every  shoot.  I  had 
myself  planted  and  watered  it.  Each  in  its  turn 
came  under  my  inspection,  and  when  it  put  on  its 
bright  green,  and  blossomed  beautifully,  and  grew 
thriftily,  then  found  I  a  heart  friend  in  it.  Thus 
seems  to  me  that  man  to  be  the  gardener  in  this 
heavenly  garden.  He  moves  hither  and  thither 
quietly,  and  in  mildest  radiance  ;  but  one  can  see 
that  every  thing  here  is  familiar  to  him.  He  casts 
around  on  all  besides  a  satisfied  and  friendly  glance, 
and  appears  to  find  joy  in  all  creation  here.  My 
heart !  Till  this  moment,  I  have  felt  within  me 
only  soft,  soothing  emotions  ;  but  now  a  tempest 
is  rising  in  my  breast.  I  am  dizzy.  Heaven,  with 
its  glory,  vanishes  from  my  sight.  I  see  him  alone. 
Now  pain  returns  again  to  this  heart ;  yet  in  this 
pain  there  lives  a  higher  blessedness.  My  soul 
burns  with  longing  to  approach  him.  Yes,  he  is 
indeed  one  known  to  me,  though  never  before  seen 
face  to  face.  Now  he  turns  hitherward,  and  looks 

)  ==@ 


<§> 


130 


THEY   AWOKE    IN    HEAVEN. 


upon  us.  He  appears  to  rejoice  over  us.  His  eyes 
glisten  with  tears  of  joy.  I  can  no  longer  restrain 
myself ;  I  must  away  to  him.  I  must  say  to  him, 
that  I  love  him  as  I  never  loved  aught  before.  He 
raises  his  hands — how?  in  those  hands  a  mark, 
and  from  the  mark,  rays  darting  forth  ?  Yes,  those 
are  the  pierced,  the  bleeding  hands.  He  blesses 
us !  Deep  in  my  heart  I  feel  his  blessing.  Now 
know  I  that  I  am  in  heaven !  Now  know  I  that 
this  is  He ! 

W.  Away,  then,  to  him. 


"  Bright  glories  rush  upon  my  sight, 
And  charm  my  wondering  eyes  ; 
The  regions  of  immortal  light, 
The  beauties  of  the  skies. 

There's  a  delightful  clearness  now ; 

My  clouds  of  doubt  are  gone  ; 
Fled  is  my  former  darkness,  too  ; 

My  fears  are  all  withdrawn. 

Short  is  the  passage,  short  the  space, 
Between  my  home  and  me  ; 

There,  there  behold  the  radiant  place  ! 
How  near  the  mansions  be  !  " 


©= 


HEAVEN.  131 


HEAVEN. 


Is  heaven  a  place  where  pearly  streams 

Glide  over  silver  sand, 
Like  childhood's  rosy,  dazzling  dreams 

Of  some  far  fairy  land  ? 

Is  heaven  a  clime  where  diamond  dews 

Glitter  on  fadeless  flowers, 
And  mirth  and  music  ring  aloud 

From  amaranthine  bowers  ? 

Ah,  no ;  not  such,  not  such  is  heaven ! 

Surpassing  far  all  these  ; 
Such  cannot  be  the  guerdon  given 

Man's  wearied  soul  to  please. 

For  saints  and  sinners,  here  below, 
Such  vain  to  be  have  proved  ; 

And  the  pure  spirit  will  despise 
Whate'er  the  sense  has  loved. 

There  shall  we  dwell  with  Sire  and  Son, 

And  with  the  mother-maid, 
And  with  the  Holy  Spirit,  one, 

In  glory  like  arrayed. 

And  not  to  one  created  thing 
Shall  one  embrace  be  given  ; 

But  all  our  joy  shall  be  in  God, 
For  only  God  is  heaven. 


132  REUNION    IN   HEAVEN. 


REUNION  IN  HEAVEN. 


IF  yon  bright  stars,  which  gem  the  night, 

Be  each  a  blissful  dwelling  sphere, 
Where  kindred  spirits  reunite, 

Whom  death  has  torn  asunder  here, 
How  sweet  it  were  at  once  to  die, 

And  leave  this  blighted  orb  afar, 
Mixed  soul  and  soul  to  cleave  the  sky, 

And  soar  away  from  star  to  star  ! 

But  O,  how  dark,  how  drear  and  lone, 

Would  seem  this  world  of  bliss, 
If,  wandering  through  each  radiant  one, 

We  failed  to  find  the  loved  of  this ! 
If  there  no  more  the  ties  shall  twine, 

That  death's  cold  hand  alone  could  sever, 
Ah,  then  these  stars  in  mockery  shine, 

More  hateful  as  they  shine  forever. 

It  cannot  be  — each  hope,  each  fear, 

That  lights  the  eye  or  clouds  the  brow, 
Proclaims  there  is  a  happier  sphere 

Than  this  black  world  that  holds  us  now. 
There  is  a  voice  which  sorrow  hears 

When  heaviest  weighs  life's  galling  chain  ; 
'Tis  heaven  that  whispers,  Dry  thy  tears ; 

The  pure  in  heart  shall  meet  again. 


I    WISH    I    WERE    AT    KEST    IN    HEAVEN. 


133 


I  WISH  I  WERE  AT  REST  IN  HEAVEN. 

It  is  said  that,  many  years  ago,  a  young  bride  was  kneeling  at  the 
altar,  and  remaining  long  on  her  knees,  they  raised  her,  and  found 
that  her  spirit  had  departed.  Her  last  words  were,  "  I  wish  I  were  at 
rest  in  heaven !  " 

"  I  WISH  I  were  at  rest  in  heaven, 

Among  the  faithful  blest : 
The  soul  is  freed  from  anguish  there, 

The  weary  are  at  rest. 

"  I  wish  I  were  at  rest  in  heaven," 

A  fair  girl  gently  sighed, 
As  she  knelt  beside  the  altar, 

A  young  and  lovely  bride. 

Rich  pearls  gleamed  forth  from  her  dark  hair, 

And  diamonds  without  peer ; 
Yet  grief  was  shadowed  on  her  brow, 

And  in  her  eye  a  tear. 

"  I  wish  I  were  at  rest  in  heaven  : 

Gently  life's  waters  glide 
In  those  bright  realms  of  peace  and  love, 

Where  sorrows  ne'er  betide. 

*'  I  wish  I  were  at  rest  in  heaven  : 

O,  sweet  would  be  my  song ; 
And  heavenly  bright  my  azure  robe, 

'Mid  the  angelic  throng. 


(o  = 


12 


134  I    WISH   I    WERE   AT    REST    IN    HEAVEN. 

"  I  wish  I  were  at  rest  in  heaven, 
Where  reigns  no  care  or  woe  ; 

I  long  in  the  celestial  fount 
To  bathe  my  weary  brow. 

"  I  wish  I  were  at  rest  in  heaven  ; 

There  dwells  my  early  guide  ; 
I  pant  to  clasp  her  to  my  heart, 

And  rest  me  by  her  side. 

"  Long  years  have  passed  since  in  my  arms 
Was  breathed  her  parting  sigh  ; 

Softly  she  murmured,  '  Fare  thee  well ! 
Helena,  I  must  die.1 

"  Hark !  floating  on  the  twilight  air, 
Sweet  music  wakes  the  gloom  : 

'Tis  she  —  I  hear  her  angel  voice  ; 
Mother !  I  come,  I  come." 

The  priest  stood  long  with  solemn  air, 
Yet  moved  she  not  her  head  ; 

Surprise,  amazement,  seized  his  frame, 
And  o'er  his  features  spread. 

Loud  did  he  call  —  no  answer  came  : 
They  raised  her  —  she  was  dead  : 

She  had  become  the  bride  of  Heaven ; 
The  weary  soul  had  fled. 


THE   BIBLE.  135 


THE  BIBLE. 


THIS  book  of  books  I'd  rather  own 

Than  all  the  gold  or  gems 
That  e'er  in  monarchs'  coffers  shone — 

Than  all  their  diadems. 
Nay,  were  the  seas  one  chrysolite, 

The  earth  a  golden  ball, 
And  diamonds  all  the  stars  of  night, 

This  book  were  worth  them  all. 

Here,  He  who  died  on  Calvary's  tree 

Hath-  made  that  promise  blest : 
"  Ye  heavy-laden,  come  to  me, 

And  I  will  give  you  rest ; 
A  bruised  reed  I  will  not  break, 

A  contrite  heart  despise  ; 
My  burden 's  light,  and  all  who  take 

My  yoke  shall  win  the  skies." 

Yes,  yes,  this  book  is  truly  worth 

All  else  to  mortals  given  ; 
For  what  are  all  the  joys  of  earth 

Compared  to  joys  in  heaven  ? 
This  is  the  guide  our  Father  gave 

To  lead  to  realms  of  day  — 
A  star  whose  lustre  gilds  the  grave  — 

"  The  light,  the  life,  the  way." 


136  SWEET    MEMORIES. 


SWEET  MEMORIES. 


WHEN  soft  stars  are  peeping 

Through  the  pure  azure  sky, 
And  southern  gales  sweeping 

Their  warm  breathings  by, 
Like  sweet  music  pealing 

Far  o'er  the  blue  sea, 
There  come  o'er  me  stealing 

Sweet  memories  of  thee. 

The  bright  rose,  when  faded, 

Flings  forth  o'er  its  tomb 
Its  velvet  leaves  laded 

With  silent  perfume  ; 
Thus  round  me  will  hover 

In  grief,  or  in  glee, 
Till  life's  dream  be  over, 

Sweet  memories  of  thee. 

As  a  sweet  lute  that  lingers 

In  silence  alone, 
Unswept  by  light  fingers 

Scarce  murmurs  a  tone, 
My  young  heart  resembled 

That  lute  light  and  free, 
Till  o'er  its  chords  trembled 

Those  memories  of  thee. 


TIME    TO    ME.  137 


TIME  TO  ME. 


TIME  to  me  this  truth  hath  taught ; 

'Tis  a  truth  that's  worth  revealing  : 
More  offend  from  want  of  thought, 

Than  from  any  want  of  feeling. 
If  advice  we  would  convey, 

There's  a  time  we  should  convey  it ; 
If  we've  but  a  word  to  say, 

There's  a  time  in  which  to  say  it ! 

Oft,  unknowingly,  the  tongue 

Touches  on  a  chord  so  aching, 
That  a  word  or  accent  wrong 

Pains  the  heart  almost  to  breaking. 
Many  a  tear  of  wounded  pride, 

Many  a  fault  of  human  blindness, 
Had  been  soothed  or  turned  aside 

By  a  quiet  voice  of  kindness ! 

Many  a  beauteous  flower  decays, 

Though  we  tend  it  e'er  so  much  ; 
Something  secret  on  it  preys, 

Which  no  human  aid  can  touch. 
So,  in  many  a  lovely  breast, 

Lies  some  canker-grief  concealed, 
That,  if  touched,  is  more  oppressed  ! 

Left  unto  itself,  —  is  healed  ! 


138  BENEVOLENCE. 


Time  to  me  this  truth  hath  taught ; 

'Tis  a  truth  that's  worth  revealing  :  — 
More  offend  for  want  of  thought 

Than  from  any  want  of  feeling  ! 


BENEVOLENCE. 


O,  LET  us  never  lightly  fling 

A  barb  of  woe  to  wound  another  ; 
O,  never  let  us  haste  to  bring 

The  cup  of  sorrow  to  a  brother. 
Each  has  the  power  to  wound  —  but  he 

Who  wounds  that  he  may  witness  pain 
Has  learnt  no  law  of  Charity, 

Which  ne'er  inflicts  a  pang  in  vain. 

'Tis  godlike  to  awaken  joy, 

Or  sorrow's  influence  to  subdue  ; 
But  not  to  wound,  nor  to  annoy, 

Is  part  of  virtue's  lesson  too  : 
Peace,  winged  in  fairer  worlds  above, 

Shall  send  her  down  and  brighten  this, 
When  all  man's  labor  be  to  love, 

And  all  his  thoughts  —  a  brother's  bliss. 


AMIABILITY.  139 


AMIABILITY. 


"  I  would  not  rail  at  beauty's  charming  power, 
I  would  but  have  her  aim  at  something  more  ; 
The  fairest  symmetry  of  form  or  face 
From  intellect  receives  its  highest  grace." 

OF  all  the  graces  which  adorn  and  dignify  the 
female  character,  amiability  is  perhaps  the  most 
preeminent ;  the  peculiar  excellence  of  this  virtue 
consists  in  the  power  of  exciting  universal  love  and 
esteem.  It  is  exercised  without  effort,  and  enjoyed 
without  alloy  ;  discretion  and  good  nature  are  the 
material  ingredients  of  this  valuable  quality. 

It  was  this  inestimable  grace  which  induced  the 
wise  man  to  confer  on  the  woman  under  its  in- 
fluence a  value  whose  price  is  above  rubies ;  and 
he  invested  her  with  this  endearing  attribute  —  that 
she  opened  her  mouth  with  wisdom,  and  her  tongue 
is  the  law  of  kindness.  It  is  this  grace  that  shows 
an  irresistible  charm  over  the  natural  beauties,  and 
exhibits  every  moral  and  intellectual  attainment  in 
their  most  interesting  point  of  view.  While  many 
other  graces  have  a  specific  and  limited  operation, 
this  is  universal  ;  when  once  it  is  implanted  as  a 
principle  in  the  heart,  it  never  ceases  to  grow,  but 


140  AMIABILITY. 


is  continually  yielding  the  most  delectable  fruit  ; 
every  incident,  however  minute,  and  every  event, 
however  disastrous  and  mournful,  constitutes  alike 
an  element  in  which  this  grace  flourishes  in  all  the 
luxuriance  of  eternal  health.  In  the  sick  chamber, 
the  social  circle,  and  the  drawing  room,  it  furnishes 
from  its  own  ample  resources  all  that  is  most  sooth- 
ing, attractive,  and  captivating  ;  ever  prompt  with- 
out officiousness,  and  deliberate  without  indifference. 
It  invests  its  most  trifling  offices  with  an  unspeak- 
able value  to  those  on  whom  they  are  conferred, 
and  bestows  the  most  costly  presents  with  a  liberal- 
ity so  pure  and  genuine,  as  to  silence  the  most  cap- 
tious, and  captivate  the  most  scrupulous. 

Of  the  conduct  of  others,  an  amiable  female  is 
always  charitable.  The  omission  of  attentions  dis- 
turbs her  not :  she  is  ever  ready  to  suggest  a  thou- 
sand reasons  for  a  supposed  injury  ;  and  should  it  be 
realized,  she  is  satisfied  with  one  —  she  knows  she 
does  not  deserve  it !  In  the  absence  of  evil  she 
invariably  argues  good. 

Of  her  own  conduct  she  is  scrupulously  guarded 
and  rigidly  exact.  She  remembers  the  language  of 
a  modern  writer,  "  that  virtue  in  general  is  not  to 
feel,  but  to  do  —  not  merely  to  conceive  a  purpose, 
but  to  carry  that  purpose  into  execution  —  not 
merely  to  be  overpowered  by  the  impression  of  a 
sentiment,  but  to  practise  what  she  loves,  and  to 
imitate  what  it  admires  ;  "  and  thus  loving  and  be- 
loved, she  progresses  through  the  various  stages  of 


AMIABILITY.  141 


life,  ornamenting  all  its  interesting  relations,  and 
bestrewing  the  path  of  duty  with  flowers  of  sweet- 
est fragrance  :  she  closes  her  brilliant  and  beauteous 
course,  by  gathering  her  duties  together  as  a  never- 
fading  bouquet  of  flowers,  binds  them  with  her  ami- 
ability, and  bequeathes  them  to  posterity ;  then  full- 
orbed,  she  sinks  beneath  the  serene  and  expansive 
horizon. 

"  Death  steals  but  to  renew  with  bloom 
The  life  that  triumphs  o'er  the  tomb  : 

She  died  not,  but  hath  flown. 
Live,  live  above  !   all  beauties  here  : 
What  art  thou  in  another  sphere  — 
An  angel  in  their  own  ?  " 


Co) —  

142  BE    KIND    TO    THE    BEGGAR. 


BE  KIND  TO  THE  BEGGAR. 


BE  kind  to  the  beggar 

You  meet  by  the  way, 
Whose  cheeks  are  all  furrowed, 

Whose  hair  is  turned  gray  ; 
For  once  he  was  happy 

As  mortal  could  be  ; 
From  life's  wasting  cares  he 

Was  perfectly  free. 

O'er  joys  fell  a  shadow : 

His  children  so  dear 
In  the  dark  valley  slumber, 

And  his  wife  lies  near  ; 
His  cottage,  where  flowers 

Bloomed  brightly  around, 
In  the  depth  of  the  winter 

Was  burned  to  the  ground. 

Now  houseless  and  friendless 

He  begs  in  the  streets, 
Soliciting  pennies 

From  all  that  he  meets. 
With  grief  in  his  bosom, 

A  tear  in  his  eye, 
O,  give  to  the  pilgrim 

Who's  now  passing  by. 


=© 

BE    KIND    TO    THE    BEGGAR.  143 

Ye  know  not  the  future,  — 

Perhaps  you  may  be, 
When  aged  and  furrowed, 

As  friendless  as  he  ; 
Then  give  to  the  beggar 

A  trifle  to-day, 
And  smile  on  him  kindly 

As  he  travels  away. 


Your  Maker,  who  looketh 

At  every  good  deed, 
Will  not  let  you  suffer 

If  ever  in  need  ; 
But  true  friends  will  gather 

Around  you  to  bless,  — 
Your  wants  to  supply,  or 

Your  temples  to  press. 

Then  give  to  the  needy,  — 

Give  all  you  can  spare  ; 
Give  food  for  the  body, 

And  raiment  to  wear ; 
And  God,  your  kind  Father, 

Will  bless  from  his  throne ; 
Such  children  he  always 

Delighteth  to  own. 


144  GIVE    AS    GOD   HATH    GIVEN    THEE. 


GIVE  AS  GOD  HATH  GIYEN  THEE. 


GIVE  as  God  hath  given  thee, 
With  a  bounty  full  and  free ; 
If  he  hath,  with  liberal  hand, 
Given  wealth  to  thy  command, 
For  the  fulness  of  thy  store, 
Give  thy  needy  brother  more. 

If  the  lot  His  love  doth  give 

Is  by  earnest  toil  to  live, 

If  with  nerve  and  sinew  strong 

Thou  dost  labor  hard  and  long, 

Then,  e'en  from  thy  slender  store, 

Give,  and  God  shall  give  thee  more. 

Hearts  there  are  with  grief  oppressed ; 
Forms  in  tattered  raiment  dressed  ; 
Homes  where  want  and  woe  abide  ; 
Dens  where  vice  and  misery  hide  ; 
With  a  bounty  large  and  free, 
Give,  as  God  hath  given  thee. 

Wealth  is  thine  to  aid  and  bless, 
Strength  to  succor  and  redress  : 
Bear  thy  weaker  brother's  part, 
Strong  of  hand,  and  strong  of  heart ; 
Be  thy  portion  large  or  small, 
Give,  for  God  doth  give  thee  all. 


"  WHO    IS    MY    NEIGHBOR  ?  "  145 


"WHO  IS  MY  NEIGHBOR?" 


THY  neighbor?  —  it  is  he  whom  thou 
Hast  power  to  aid  and  bless  ; 

Whose  aching  heart,  or  burning  brow, 
Thy  soothing  hand  may  press. 

Thy  neighbor  ?  —  'tis  the  fainting  poor, 
Whose  eye  with  want  is  dim, 

Whom  hunger  sends  from  door  to  door 
Go,  thou,  and  succor  him. 

Thy  neighbor  ?  —  'tis  that  weary  man, 
Whose  years  are  at  their  brim, 

Bent  low  with  sickness,  cares,  and  pain 
Go,  thou,  and  comfort  him. 

Thy  neighbor  ?  —  'tis  the  heart  bereft 

Of  every  earthly  gem  ;  — 
Widow  and  orphan,  helpless  left  — 

Go,  thou,  and  shelter  them. 

Where'er  thou  meet'st  a  human,  form 
Less  favored  than  thy  own, 

Remember,  'tis  thy  neighbor  worm, 
Thy  brother  or  thy  son. 

O,  pass  not,  pass  not  heedless  by  ; 

Perhaps  thou  canst  redeem 
The  breaking  heart  from  misery  — 

Go,  share  thy  lot  with  him. 


146  THE    ABUSE    OF    FICTION. 


THE  ABUSE  OF  FICTION. 


One's  indignation  is  excited  at  the  immoral  tendency  of  such  lessons  to  young 
readers — JOHN  FOSTER. 

To  abuse  the  imagination  is  to  abuse  the  most 
delicate  and  susceptible  of  the  mental  faculties ;  for 
it  is  the  common  parent  of  the  beautiful  and  true, 
as  also  of  the  vicious  and  corrupt.  Every  action, 
whatever  may  be  its  moral  quality,  is  first  preceded 
by  the  conception  and  meditation  of  it.  And  out 
of  the  heart  "  are  the  issues  of  life." 

Works  of  fiction  are  addressed  to  the  imagination. 
To  excite  and  please  this  faculty  are  the  objects 
which  they  propose  to  accomplish.  They  must 
awaken  and  gratify  it,  or  they  are  failures.  And  a 
book  which  neither  interests  nor  pleases  is  a  very 
harmless  affair. 

Fiction  has  its  uses  and  its  abuses.  Its  uses  are 
of  a  high  and  commanding  order.  Great  truths, 
important  lessons,  and  pleasing  entertainment,  are 
often  rendered  the  most  attractive  and  beneficial, 
when  arrayed  in  its  garb.  Poetry,  sentiment,  and 
philosophy,  have  been  immeasurably  indebted  to  its 
magic  power.  But  it  is  not  of  its  uses  that  we  now 
propose  to  speak. 


THE    ABUSE    OF    FICTION.  147 

Of  the  abuses  to  which  fiction  has  been  prosti- 
tuted, the  present  age  affords  a  startling  number  and 
variety  of  illustrations.  These  abuses  have  been 
made  to  assume  the  form  of  biography,  history,  of 
the  drama,  of  the  novel  and  romance.  No  depart- 
ment of  literature  has  entirely  escaped.  But  the 
novel  and  romance  are  the  vehicles  most  frequently 
employed.  Under  these  forms,  the  prolific  press 
has,  within  a  few  years,  poured  forth  a  stream  of 
corrupt  literature,  which,  it  is  no  exaggeration  to 
say,  seriously  threatens  the  foundations  of  morality 
and  religion. 

The  attention  of  the  public  has  been  directed  to 
the  dangerous  character  and  tendency  of  these 
works,  by  men  of  sound  sense  and  acknowledged 
authority.  The  public,  upon  subjects  of  this  na- 
ture, is  not  so  much  censurable  for  slowness  in  per- 
ception, as  for  slowness  in  action.  No  one,  were 
he  to  consult  his  reason  and  belief,  would  object  to 
the  establishment  of  a  censorship  so  severe  that  it 
would  amount  to  an  annihilation  of  immoral  books ; 
but  to  admit  that  there  was  a  necessity  for  such  a 
censorship,  or  an  occasion  for  serious  apprehension, 
might  require  longer  reflection  and  a  more  careful 
observation.  Between  the  cause  and  the  effect 
there  is  a  space,  which,  at  first  glance,  seems  to  be 
occupied  by  conjectures  and  doubts;  which  con- 
jectures and  doubts  experience  and  investigation 
may  perhaps  alone  dissipate  and  remove.  Never- 
theless it  would  appear  to  be  no  difficult  task  to  show 

=@ 


148  THE    ABUSE    OF    FICTION. 

that  the  connection  between  them  is  of  the  most 
intimate  and  indissoluble  nature  ;  that,  the  existence 
of  the  cause  being  admitted,  the  certain  sequence 
of  the  effect  cannot  be  denied. 

Let  us,  then,  for  a  moment,  consider  the  effect  of 
fiction  upon  the  intellect. 

To  form  and  fashion  images,  ideas,  and  fancies 
from  the  conceptions  of  the  mind,  is  the  peculiar 
and  legitimate  office  of  the  imagination.  It  is  with 
conceptions,  therefore,  that  the  imagination  has  to 
deal.  And  what  are  conceptions  ?  As  denned  by 
philosophers,  they  are  the  sensations  and  percep- 
tions suggested  to  or  awakened  in  the  mind,  by  the 
presence  of  external  objects  and  scenes,  and  by  the 
recalling  of  past  objects  and  events.  According  to 
the  character  of  these  objects  and  events  will  be 
the  character  of  the  conceptions.  If  the  objects  be 
real,  so  will  be  the  conceptions ;  and  vice  versa. 
In  the  one  case,  the  imagination  is  employed  with 
what  is  actual,  probable,  or  possible ;  in  the  other, 
with  what  is  fanciful,  impossible,  and  visionary. 

Now,  of  itself,  and  by  its  own  nature,  the  imagi- 
nation is  the  most  active  of  the  mental  faculties. 
Less  than  any  other  one  does  it  require  a  stimulant 
to  its  exercise  ;  more  than  any  other  does  it  require 
restraint.  In  childhood,  it  peoples  the  darkness 
with  phantoms,  fairies,  and  ghosts  ;  in  youth,  it  fills 
the  future  with  bright  visions  of  promise  and  enjoy- 
ment, and  gilds  the  rugged  pathway  of  life  with  its 
magic  and  dazzling  light.  Even  mature  age  is 


THE   ABUSE   OF    FICTION.  149 

oftener  led  astray  by  this  faculty  than  by  all  others. 
Bishop  Butler,  whose  studies  brought  him  to  inves- 
tigate its  pernicious  influence  on  the  reasonings  of 
his  contemporaries  and  predecessors  in  morals  and  re- 
ligion, passed  upon  it  a  severe  sentence  of  unquali- 
fied censure  :  "  We  are  accustomed,  from  our  youth 
up,  to  indulge  that  forward,  delusive  faculty,  ever 
obtruding  beyond  its  sphere  ;  of  some  assistance, 
indeed,  to  apprehension,  but  the  author  of  all  error." 
Not  only  is  it  the  most  active  of  the  mental  pow- 
ers, but  it  is  the  most  independent  also.  To  a 
greater  or  less  extent,  it  controls,  influences,  and 
quickens  each  of  the  other  faculties  ;  but  it  is  itself, 
or  it  may  be,  wholly  independent  of  the  control  of 
each  and  all  of  the  others.  It  can  even  induce  the 
mind  to  question,  set  aside,  and  wholly  disbelieve 
the  evidence  of  the  senses,  the  most  positive  and 
tangible  of  all  proof.  It  attests  its  marvellous  power 
in  the  watches  of  the  night,  when,  seizing  the  helm, 
it  hurries  the  mind  through  regions  of  the  wildest 
improbability  and  conjecture  ;  at  a  single  leap,  pass- 
es from  meditation  to  conclusion,  from  earth  to 
heaven  ;  and  scorning  all  barriers  of  time  and  space, 
whirls  the  intellect,  captive  and  powerless,  from  one 
extreme  of  the  universe  to  the  other;  nor  leaves  it, 
until,  trembling  and  affrighted,  it  bursts  from  its  con- 
trol with  a  quivering  shock,  unable  longer  to  sup- 
port the  fierce  and  unnatural  excitement.  But  it 
displays  its  terrible  ascendency  the  most  fearfully, 
when,  by  sufferance  or  misfortune,  it  has  at  length 


13* 


150  THE    ABUSE    OF    FICTION. 

acquired  despotic  control  over  the  waking  thoughts 
and  faculties ;  when  it  has  conquered  reason  and 
sports  with  realities  ;  when  it  has  transformed  a 
noble  intelligence  into  a  drivelling  idiot ;  a  manly 
and  ambitious  aspirant  into  a  silly  and  wavering 
gazer  ;  a  generous  enthusiast  into  a  raving  and  furi- 
ous maniac. 

To  this  ever-active,  bold,  and  restless  faculty,  fic- 
tion—  itself  the  creation  of  imagination  —  addresses 
itself.  The  natural  tendency  to  a  constant  and 
controlling  exercise  is  thus  increased  by  the  appli- 
ance of  a  most  powerful  stimulant.  It  is  as  though 
the  morbidly  nervous  man  should  surrender  himself 
to  the  influence  of  opiates  and  narcotics  ;  as  though 
the  slave  of  appetite  should  be  furnished  with  the 
means  of  gratifying  all  the  senses ;  as  though  the 
victorious  warrior  should  discover  new  enemies  and 
new  provocations.  The  natural  order  of  the  facul- 
ties is  inverted.  Reason,  which  should  be  the 
guide,  becomes  the  slave  of  the  fancy  ;  and  the 
throne  of  calm  judgment  is  usurped  by  credulous 
enthusiasm.  Lost  in  a  chaos  of  reveries,  the  mind 
no  longer  performs  its  high  functions  ;  figments  are 
mistaken  for  facts  ;  conjectures  become  certainties  ; 
hopes  assume  the  form  of  expectations  ;  dreams  and 
chimeras  receive  the  consideration  due  to  actual 
existences.  The  natural  and  legitimate  connection 
between  means  and  ends  dissolves  into  an  absurd 
and  irrational  one  ;  labor,  industry,  and  application 
are  abandoned  for  the  contemplation  of  chance, 


THE   ABUSE    OF    FICTION.  151 

accident,  or  some  happy  casualty  ;  the  attainable 
objects  of  a  worthy  ambition  are  overlooked  and 
despised,  and  the  energies  of  the  mind  are  wasted 
in  attempting  unattainable  and  fanciful  results. 

Such  are  some  of  the  effects  which  fiction  pro- 
duces on  the  intellect.  These  results  are  by  no 
means  all  that  would  admit  of  an  enumeration  in 
detail.  Yet  they  are  what  seem  to  be  the  more 
general  and  noticeable  effects.  A  mere  outline 
sketch  has  been  drawn,  which,  in  the  filling  up, 
might  be  made  to  assume  a  force  and  vividness  of 
expression  which  would  at  once  be  recognized,  and 
which  could  not  fail  of  being  remembered.  For 
this  purpose,  illustrations  must  be  adduced.  History 
abounds  in  them.  Observation,  such  observation 
as  the  most  careless  practise,  will  have  noted  them. 
The  deplorable  effects  in  degree  may  not  have  been 
observed ;  but  the  same  effects  in  kind.  It  is  not 
of  the  degree  of  the  effect  of  fiction  on  the  intel- 
lect that  we  have  remarked,  but  of  the  kind.  This 
last  must  depend  upon  the  nature  of  the  intellectual 
faculties,  and  upon  the  attributes  of  fiction;  the 
former,  upon  the  extent  of  the  abuse,  and  the 
amount  of  the  indulgence. 

Debasing  fiction  not  only  affects  the  intellect, 
but  produces  more  lamentable  and  serious  conse- 
quences on  the  moral  nature  ;  and  so  intimate  is  the 
connection  which  exists  between  these  component 
parts  of  the  human  mind,  that  one  cannot  be  affect- 
ed, for  better  or  worse,  without  affecting  the  other. 


152  POETICAL    PORTRAITS. 


POETICAL  PORTRAITS. 


SHAKSPEAHE. 

His  was  the  wizard  spell 
The  spirit  to  enchain  ; 

His  grasp  o'er  Nature  fell, 
Creation  owned  his  reign. 

MILTON. 

His  spirit  was  the  home 

Of  aspiration  high ! 
A  temple,  whose  huge  dome 

Was  hidden  in  the  sky. 

THOMSON. 

The  Seasons,  as  they  roll, 
Shall  bear  thy  name  along, 

And,  graven  on  the  soul 
Of  Nature,  live  thy  song. 

GRAY. 

Soaring  on  pinions  proud, 
The  lightnings  of  his  eye 

Scar  the  black  thunder-cloud, 
He  passes  swiftly  by. 


POETICAL    PORTRAITS.  153 

BURNS. 

He  seized  his  country's  lyre, 

With  ardent  grasp  and  strong, 
And  made  his  soul  of  fire 

Dissolve  itself  in  song. 

SOUTHEY. 

"Where  Necromancy  flings 

O'er  Eastern  lands  her  spell, 
Sustained  on  Fable's  wings, 
His  spirit  loves  to  dwell. 

COLERIDGE. 

Magician,  whose  dread  spell, 

Working  in  pale  moonlight, 
From  superstition's  cell 

Invokes  each  satellite ! 

WORDSWORTH. 

He  hung  his  harp  upon 

Philosophy's  pure  shrine ; 
And,  placed  by  Nature's  throne, 

Composed  each  placid  line. 

CAMPBELL. 

With  all  that  Nature's  fire 

Can  lend  to  polished  art, 
He  strikes  his  graceful  lyre 

To  thrill  or  warm  the  heart. 


154  POETICAL  PORTRAITS. 

SCOTT. 

He  sings,  and  lo !  Romance 
Starts  from  its  mouldering  urn, 

While  Chivalry's  bright  lance 
And  nodding  plumes  return. 

WILSON. 

His  strains  like  holy  hymn 
Upon  the  ear  doth  float, 

Or  voice  of  cherubim 
In  mountain  vale  remote. 

HEMANS. 

To  bid  the  big  tear  start 

Unchallenged  from  its  shrine, 

And  thrill  the  quivering  heart 
With  pity's  voice,  are  thine. 

SHELLEY. 

A  solitary  rock 

In  a  far  distant  sea, 
Rent  by  the  thunder's  shock, 

An  emblem  stands  of  thee  ! 

HOGG. 

Clothed  in  the  rainbow's  beam, 
'Mid  strath  and  pastoral  glen, 

He  sees  the  fairies  gleam 
Far  from  the  haunts  of  men. 


=© 

POETRY    EVERY   WHERE.  155 


BYRON. 


Black  clouds  his  forehead  bound, 
And  at  his  feet  were  flowers  : 

Mirth,  madness,  magic  found 
In  him  their  keenest  powers. 


MOORE. 


Crowned  with  perennial  flowers, 
By  wit  and  genius  wove, 

He  wanders  through  the  bowers 
Of  fancy  and  of  love. 


POETRY  EVERY  WHERE. 


THERE'S  poetry  among  the  rocks, 

Upon  the  cloud-capt  mountains : 
There's  music  in  each  tiny  rill 

That  flows  from  springing  fountains. 
And  all  is  poetry  divine, 

And  all  is  wondrous  fair, 
For  He  who  built  the  heavenly  dome 

Is  always  present  there. 

There's  poetry  in  the  deep  vale, 
Where  the  mineral  water  gushes, 

And  the  crimson  flowers  in  sunny  bowers 
Reflect  the  morning  blushes. 


156  POETRY    EVEEY    WHERE. 

And  there,  in  silence  and  in  shade, 

Nature  is  passing  fair  ; 
For  He  who  made  the  beauteous  world 

Is  always  present  there. 

The  forest  is  all  poetry, 

Where  the  honey  bees  are  singing, 
And  the  golden  spider  his  bower  of  love, 

'Neath  the  green  branch,  is  spinning. 
And  the  rosy  morn  and  purple  eve 

The  umbrageous  herbage  share, 
For  He  who  lit  the  soft,  pale  moon, 

Is  always  present  there. 

There's  poetry  on  the  deep  sea, 

Where  the  mountain  waves  are  roaring  ; 
And  the  young  billows  clap  their  hands, 

Rejoicing  and  adoring. 
And  the  phosph'rous  sea  and  ocean's  caves 

Are  in  their  nature  fair  ; 
For  He  who  made  the  mighty  winds 

Is  always  present  there. 

There's  poetry  in  the  dark  clouds, 

Where  the  chain-lightning  's  flaming ; 
And  the  thunder's  voice  is  heard  aloud, 

Its  Maker's  power  proclaiming. 
But  o'er  those  clouds,  and  in  that  sky, 

All  shines  divinely  fair  ; 
For  He  who  forged  the  thundrous  bolt 

Is  always  present  there. 

There's  poetry  among  the  winds, 

Where  they  kiss  the  spring's  first  flowers  ; 


POETRY   EVEEY   W^ERE.  157 

And  sleep  on  beauty's  breast  divine 

In  love's  young  rosy  bowers. 
And  all  the  bowers  of  love  and  spring 

Are  beautiful  and  fair  ; 
For  He  who  is  the  life  of  life 

Is  always  present  there. 

There's  poetry  among  the  stars, 

That  gem  the  azure  sky  ; 
'  Although  with  borrowed  light  they  shine, 

Reflected  from  His  eye. 
There's  poetry  above  the  stars, 

Poesy's  heavenly  throne  ; 
Fountain  of  fountains  —  light  of  life, 

Music  and  love's  own  home, 
And  all  above  and  all  below 

Is  poetry  sublime  ! 
Stamped  with  the  eternal  mystic  seal  — 

The  hand  that  is  divine. 


158  AN   ALLEGORY. 


AN  ALLEGORY. 


FOR  a  long  time  my  mind  had  been  severely  ex- 
ercised, with  a  view  of  my  own  situation  as  a  pro- 
fessed disciple  of  Christ,  and  also  that  of  the  Chris- 
tian church.  I  had  been  casting  about  me  to  see 
if  I  could  discover  the  cause  of  this  sad  declension 
in  religious  interest. 

With  my  mind  agitated  and  distressed,  I  fell  into 
a  disturbed  slumber.  I  dreamed  that  I  was  in  great 
distress  of  mind,  on  account  of  my  exceeding 
sirifulness.  It  seemed  as  if  no  man  had  ever  done 
so  many  bad  things  as  I  had,  and  that  it  was  not 
possible  that  I  could  be  forgiven.  In  this  situation, 
I  thought  I  passed  some  days  and  nights  without 
once  supposing  these  feelings  arose  from  a  convic- 
tion of  sin.  At  length,  in  all  the  bitterness  of  spirit, 
I  voluntarily  exclaimed,  "  O,  wretched  man  that  I 
am!  who  shall  deliver  me  from  the  body  of  this 
death  ?  "  I  felt  as  if  my  sins  verily  clung  to  me,  a 
loathsome,  dead  weight.  At  this  moment  of  de- 
spondency, and  almost  of  despair,  a  Being  appeared, 
of  infinite  beauty  and  surpassing  loveliness,  and 
with  tones  which  reached  my  inmost  soul,  said, 
"  Take  my  yoke  upon  you,  which  is  easy,  and  my 

@ 


AN    ALLEGORY.  159 


burden,  which  is  light."  Yes,  exclaimed  I,  any 
thing  for  a  change ;  and  immediately  my  burden 
was  gone,  and  I  seemed  to  be  clothed  in  a  beautiful 
white  robe,  which  hung  loosely  and  gracefully  over 
my  shoulders,  reaching  to  the  ground.  Keep  this 
garment  unspotted  from  the  world,  said  he,  and  you 
will  find  it  all  you  need. 

What,  thought  I,  do  you  call  this  a  yoke,  this  a 
burden  ?  Why,  it  seems  as  if  I  could  fly  to  the  utter- 
most parts  of  the  earth,  or  soar  to  heaven.  My 
vision  seemed  also  to  have  undergone  a  change. 
How  lovely  every  thing  appeared  !  Nature  wore  a 
smile  I  had  never  seen  before,  and  all  upon  which 
my  eye  rested  was  clothed  with  loveliness.  Thus 
things  remained  for  some  days,  my  mind  being 
occupied  wholly  with  what  had  transpired,  and  in 
viewing  the  changed  appearance  of  all  around. 

At  length  I  observed  there  were  recesses  in  this 
garment,  and  thrusting  my  hand  into  one  of  them, 
I  found  it  contained  scrolls  or  parchments.  I  drew 
one  forth  ;  it  read  thus :  "  Love  the  Lord  thy  God 
with  all  thy  might,  mind,  and  strength,  and  thy 
neighbor  as  thyself."  I  do,  I  do,  was  the  quick 
response  of  my  heart.  It  really  seemed  that  I  loved 
every  body  and  every  thing.  I  drew  forth  another, 
upon  which  was  written,  "  Do  unto  others  as  ye 
would  that  others  should  do  unto  you."  Upon 
another,  "  Deal  justly,  love  mercy,  and  walk  hum- 
bly with  God."  Upon  another,  "  The  earth  is  the 
Lord's,  and  the  fulness  thereof,  and  the  cattle  upon 


160  AN   ALLEGORY. 


a  thousand  hills.  The  silver  and  gold  are  mine," 
saith  the  Lord.  Another  read,  "  Do  whatsoever 
your  hands  find  to  do  with  your  might."  Another, 
"  Be  not  conformed  to  this  world,  but  be  ye  trans- 
formed in  your  spirit  and  in  the  image  of  your 
mind."  Another,  as  I  took  it  from  my  pocket, 
seemed  to  illumine  the  place  where  I  stood,  and  I 
could  observe  the  smallest  obstruction  in  the  way 
of  my  advancing.  I  cast  my  eye  upon  it,  and  read 
these  words  :  "  A  lamp  to  your  feet  and  a  light  to 
your  path."  A  useful  thing,  indeed,  thought  I.  I 
had  by  this  time  become  much  interested,  as  you 
may  well  suppose,  and  I  looked  with  increasing 
desire  for  more  scrolls.  I  found  them  in  great 
abundance.  "  Visit  the  widow  and  fatherless  in 
their  afflictions,"  the  sick  and  imprisoned  of  what- 
ever character.  Relieve  the  poor  and  destitute, 
whom  you  always  have  with  you.  Break  the  chain 
of  the  bondman,  and  let  the  captive  go  free.  "  Be 
diligent  in  business,  fervent  in  spirit,  serving  the 
Lord."  These  are  strange  documents,  said  I  with- 
in myself;  but  I  have  been  so  much  relieved  by 
losing  my  burden,  I  will  try  what  I  can.  At  this 
juncture  I  discovered  on  another  parchment,  "  If 
any  man  lack  wisdom,  let  him  ask  of  God,  who 
giveth  liberally  and  upbraideth  not,"  which 
strengthened  my  resolution  to  go  forward.  I 
thought  every  thing  went  on  well  for  some  time. 
It  appeared  that  my  work  was  easier.  I  had  an 
abundance  of  time  and  opportunity  to  do  good,  and 


AN  ALLEGORY.  161 


means  to  do  it  with  ;  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  I 
should  never  know  any  feelings  or  desires  but  these. 
0,  how  I  could  plead  with  sinners  to  flee  from  the 
wrath  to  come,  to  embrace  Christ,  and  try  his  yoke 
and  burden !  How  fervently  could  I  pray  that  the 
poor  slave,  who  had  been  so  long  and  so  unjustly 
trodden  downr  might  rise  with  his  mind  illumined 
by  the  truths  of  God's  word,  and  be  permitted  and 
enabled  to  cast  off  the  double  yoke  of  slavery  to 
man  and  the  devil.  How  eagerly  did  I  engage  in 
scattering  far  and  wide  those  (Olive  ?)  leaves  which 
are  for  the  healing  of  the  nations,,  and  how  agoniz- 
ingly did  I  beseech  the  God  of  Peace  to  hasten  the 
time  when  nations  should  learn  war  no  more  !  In 
mingling  again  with  the  world,  I  observed  that  as 
different  persons  passed  me,  they  cast  a  glance  at 
my  dress  and  smiled  j  but  I  supposed  it  to  be  the 
smile  of  complacency  at  its  perfect  plainness,  its 
adaptation  to  my  wants,  and  the  ease  with  which 
it  was  worn.  I  felt  to  pity  those  who  seemed  to 
be  cramped  in  their  motions  by  dresses  of  a  differ- 
ent kind,  and  upon  which  I  looked  with  perfect 
disgust.  After  a  while,  some  kind  friends,  as  I 
thought  them,  ventured  to  suggest  that  there  might 
be  some  improvement  made  in  my  exterior  which 
would  make  me  appear  to  better  advantage,  and 
even  increase  my  influence  and  means  of  doing 
good,  as  by  so  doing  I  should  be  able  to  come  at  an 
entirely  different  class  of  men. 

The  more  they  said,  and  the  more  I  thought  of 


@ 

162  AN   ALLEGOEY. 

it,  the  more  I  felt  inclined  to  believe  that  what  they 
said  might  be  true.  And  in  looking  to  see  how 
my  appearance  differed  from  others,  the  first  thing 
I  noticed  was  the  extreme  straightness  of  my  dress  ; 
it  was  made,  as  I  thought,  with  ample  folds,  but 
still  seemed  almost  to  cling  to  my  person.  Here, 
thought  I,  is  a  chance  for  improvement ;  if  I  can 
get  this  robe  to  stand  out  a  little  from  me,  I  shall 
certainly  be  situated  to  advance  at  a  more  rapid 
rate.  I  was  not  long  in  finding  means  to  accom- 
plish this  object.  This  being  done,  I  sat  down,  as 
was  my  custom  daily,  to  look  over  my  scrolls ;  and 
the  first  I  put  my  hands  upon  was  the  one  contain- 
ing the  words,  "  Be  not  conformed  to  the  world," 
&c.  I  was  somewhat  startled  at  seeing  this,  for  I 
felt  guilty ;  but  this  soon  wore  off,  and  on  the  whole- 
I  was  pleased  with  the  improvement.  The  next 
thing  proposed,  and  which  I  fell  in  with  more  read- 
ily than  the  first,  was  a  something  around  the  lower 
part  of  my  dress.  I  think  it  was  called  a  flounce, 
at  first  a  rather  modest  affair,  but  ere  long  increased 
to  two  or  three  of  very  immoderate  width  and  ful- 
ness ;  and  strange  as  it  may  seem,  I  selected  them, 
as  I  dreamed,  of  the  very  color  of  my  former  sins, 
namely,  scarlet.  Much  pleased  with  my  improved 
appearance,  I  wandered  forth  to  see  and  be  seen  — 
new  business,  to  be  sure,  for  me.  I  came  to  a  place 
where  I  had  spent  many  happy  hours  in  perusing 
my  scrolls,  and  asking  wisdom  of  God  ;  and  was 
reminded  by  what  I  saw,  that  I  had  not  of  late 


AN    ALLEGORY.  163 


studied  my  papers  much,  and  to  quiet  conscience,  I 
thought  I  would  then  spend  a  little  time  in  these 
duties.  I  took  from  my  pocket  the  scroll  which  had 
formerly  cast  so  much  light  on  my  path  ;  but  O,  how 
changed  !  Its  radiance  seemed  to  be  dimmed  with 
the  lustre  of  my  flounces,  and  the  light  it  did  cast 
was  indistinct.  I  recollected  now,  for  the  first  time, 
that  my  feet  for  a  time  had  occasionally  tripped, 
and  now,  in  endeavoring  to  get  sight  at  them,  I 
found  my  robe  so  full  and  flowing  that  it  was  im- 
possible to  see  them ;  but  one  thing  I  did  discover, 
which  was,  that  my  robe  was  entirely  gone  up  to 
my  flounces.  I  thought  this  somewhat  singular ; 
but  the  dazzling  appearance  of  my  trimmings  soon 
divested  me  of  my  anxiety,  and  as  for  the  scroll,  I 
made  up  my  mind  it  would  be  of  no  further  use  to 
me,  and  I  cast  it  away.  Soon  I  perceived  the  re- 
mainder of  my  robe  had  become  somewhat  spotted 
and  soiled,  and  besides  did  not  become  me  so  well, 
I  thought,  as  would  one  of  a  greater  variety  and 
more  fanciful  colors.  Not  willing  as  yet  to  lose 
sight  of  the  whole  of  it,  I  obtained  a  covering  for 
a  part,  and  left  the  upper  part  as  it  originally  was 
made.  To  my  astonishment  I  perceived  that  so  fast 
as  I  added  any  thing  by  way  of  improvement,  just 
so  fast  the  original  vanished.  Determined  to  save 
what  little  remained,  I  purchased  the  most  beautiful 
and  costly  gold  pin  I  could  obtain,  thinking  to 
secure  what  remained  of  my  robe  by  pinning  it 
closely  with  this  article ;  and  more,  my  eyes  had 


@  = 

164  AN   ALLEGORY. 


been  somewhat  dazzled  with  seeing  these  same 
things  worn  to  advantage  in  the  bosoms  of  others. 
But  no  sooner  did  I  attempt  to  insert  it,  than,  to  my 
perfect  surprise,  the  little  which  remained  of  my 
robe  vanished  entirely ;  and  there  I  was,  my  scrolls 
gone,  and  my  dress  completely  metamorphosed. 

I  immediately  sat  about  finding  some  article  to 
make  up  the  loss;  and  looking  out  for  a  place  where 
I  might  purchase  something  appropriate,  I  observed 
a  flaming  handbill,  on  which  was  printed,  in  large 
letters,  "  Clothing  for  the  Million."  I  soon  sue*- 
ceeded  in  supplying  myself  with  what  I  thought  I 
needed,  and  among  others  I  was  shown  some  splen- 
did gold  rings,  with  which  I  thought  I  filled  my 
fingers.  After  surveying  myself,  at  full  length,  in 
a  large  mirror  suspended  for  that  purpose,  not  a 
little  pleased  with  my  improved  appearance,  I  start- 
ed for  my  shop.  Every  person  I  met  seemed  to 
admire  my  uniform.  Among  them  I  noticed  the 
nobility,  and  those  of  all  ranks  and  stations.  Here 
I  met  a  lawyer,  there  a  doctor,  there  a  minister,  and 
there  a  merchant,  and  found  my  appearance  corre- 
sponded with  theirs  most  perfectly,  except  that  my 
cravat  was  tied  in  a  double  knot,  and  I  noticed  that 
that  of  my  beloved  pastor  was  tied  with  a  single 
one  —  so  much  had  he  been  in  advance  of  me  in 
getting  the  latest  fashion.  Delighted,  I  engaged 
afresh  in  the  business  of  life.  I  was  prospered  in 
basket  and  in  store.  It  seemed  now  as  if  meetings 
for  the  worship  of  God  multiplied,  while  I  had  less 
)  =@ 


AN    ALLEGORY.  165 


time  to  attend  them.  The  calls  upon  my  benevo- 
lence were  more  frequent,  and  although  I  had 
abundant  means,  I  felt  disposed  to  hold  on  upon 
them.  The  prison  seemed  never  so  full  of  occu- 
pants. The  list  of  sick  seemed  swollen  almost  to 
embrace  a  good  part  of  the  population.  Wars  and 
rumors  of  wars  were  rife  ;  but  what  cared  I  how 
many  were  made  widows  and  orphans  by  this  most 
inhuman  butchery,  if  it  but  increased  my  gains  ? 
As  this  state  of  things  progressed,  I  found  myself 
more  and  more  anxious  to  obtain  riches  and  pleasures ; 
and  in  proportion  as  I  succeeded  did  my  anxiety 
increase,  lest  in  some  way  I  should  lose.  My  for- 
mer peace  of  mind  was  gone.  I  was  harassed  by 
day  and  by  night.  My  situation  at  length  became 
more  insupportable  than  when,  in  bitterness  of  spirit, 
I  formerly  cried  for  relief.  In  awful  agitation,  while 
fumbling  in  my  pockets  for  I  know  not  what,  some- 
thing I  encountered  seemed  familiar  to  my  touch. 
I  drew  it  forth,  and  judge  my  surprise  when  I  be- 
held a  scroll  like  unto  those  I  had  formerly  perused 
with  so  much  delight.  How  it  came  there,  I  never 
knew.  It  was  like  the  countenance  of  an  old  and 
tried  friend.  I  opened  it,  and  in  it  were  these  words : 
"  Return  to  the  Lord,  who  will  have  mercy,  and  to 
our  God,  who  will  abundantly  pardon."  Return  !  I 
exclaimed,  without  waiting  to  finish  the  sentence. 
Yes !  that  is  the  word  ;  and  thus  I  continued  to 
shout  until  I  aroused  myself  from  my  slumbers,  and 
behold  —  was  it  all  a  dream  ? 

)  @ 


166  CLINGING   TO    EARTH. 


CLINGING  TO  EARTH. 


O,  DO  not  let  me  die  !     The  earth  is  bright, 

And  I  am  earthly,  so  I  love  it  well ; 
Though  heaven  is  holier,  all  replete  with  light, 

Yet  I  am  frail,  and  with  frail  things  1$ibuld  dwell. 

•• 

I  cannot  die  !     The  flowers  of  earthly  love 
Shed  their  rich  fragrance  on  a  kindred  heart ; 

There  may  be  purer,  brighter  flowers  above, 
Yet  with  these  ones  'twould  be  too  hard  to  part. 

I  dream  of  heaven,  and  well  I  love  these  dreams ; 

They  scatter  sunlight  on  my  varying  way  ; 
But  'mid  the  clouds  of  earth  are  priceless  gleams 

Of  brightness,  and  on  earth  O  let  me  stay. 

It  is  not  that  my  lot  is  void  of  gloom, 

That  sadness  never  circles  round  my  heart, 

Nor  that  I  fear  the  darkness  of  the  tomb, 
That  I  would  never  from  the  earth  depart. 

'Tis  that  I  love  the  world  —  its  cares,  its  sorrows, 
Its  bounding  hopes,  its  feelings  fresh  and  warm, 

Each  cloud  it  wears,  and  every  light  it  borrows, 
Loves,  wishes,  fears,  the  sunshine  and  the  storm. 


(o)-  = 

ASPIRING   TO    HEAVEN.  167 

I  love  them  all ;  but  closer  still  the  loving 

Twine  with  my  being's  cords,  and  make  my  life ; 

And  while  within  this  sunlight  I  am  moving, 
I  well  can  bide  the  storms  of  worldly  strife. 

Then  do  not  let  me  die  !   for  earth  is  bright, 

And  I  am  earthly,  so  I  love  it  well : 
Heaven  is  a  land  of  holiness  and  light, 

But  I  am  frail,  and  with  the  frail  would  dwell. 


ASPIRING  TO  HEAVEN. 


YES,  let  me  die  !     Am  I  of  spirit-birth, 
And  shall  I  linger  here  where  spirits  fell, 

Loving  the  stain  they  cast  on  all  of  earth  ? 

O,  make  me  pure,  with  pure  ones  e'er  to  dwell ! 

'Tis  sweet  to  die  !     The  flowers  of  earthly  love 
(Fair,  frail,  spring  blossoms)  early  droop  and  die  ; 

But  all  their  fragrance  is  exhaled  above, 
Upon  our  spirits  evermore  to  lie. 

Life  is  a  dream,  a  bright  but  fleeting  dream, 
I  can  but  love  ;  but  then  my  soul  awakes, 

And  from  the  mist  of  earthliness  a  gleam 
Of  heavenly  light,  of  truth  immortal,  breaks. 


168  ASPIRING    TO    HEAVEN. 

I  shrink  not  from  the  shadows  sorrow  flings 
Across  my  pathway  ;  nor  from  cares  that  rise 

In  every  footprint ;  for  each  shadow  brings 
Sunshine  and  rainbow  as  it  glooms  and  flies. 

But  heaven  is  dearer.     There  I  have  my  treasure  ; 

There  angels  fold  in  love  their  snowy  wings ; 
There  sainted  lips  chant  in  celestial  measure, 

And  spirit  fingers  stray  o'er  heaven-wrought  strings. 

There  loving  eyes  are  to  the  portals  straying  ; 

There  arms  extend,  a  wanderer  to  fold  ; 
There  waits  a  dearer,  holier  One,  arraying 

His  own  in  spotless  robes  and  crowns  of  gold. 

Then  let  me  die.     My  spirit  longs  for  heaven, 

In  that  pure  bosom  evermore  to  rest ; 
But,  if  to  labor  longer  here  be  given, 

"  Father,  thy  will  be  done  ! "  and  I  am  blest. 


MY   BIRD.  169 

MY  BIRD. 


E'ER  last  year's  moon  had  left  the  sky, 
A  birdling  sought  my  Indian  nest, 

And  folded,  O,  so  lovingly  ! 

Her  tiny  wings  upon  my  breast. 

From  morn  till  evening's  purple  tinge, 
In  winsome  helplessness  she  lies  ; 

Two  rose  leaves,  with  a  silken  fringe, 
Shut  softly  on  her  starry  eyes. 

There's  not  in  Ind  a  lovelier  bird  ; 

Broad  earth  owns  not  a  happier  nest ; 
O  God,  thou  hast  a  fountain  stirred, 

Whose  waters  never  more  shall  rest ! 

This  beautiful,  mysterious  thing, 
This  seeming  visitant  from  heaven, 

This  bird  with  the  immortal  wing, 
To  me,  to  me,  thy  hand  has  given. 

The  pulse  first  caught  its  tiny  stroke, 
The  blood  its  crimson  hue,  from  mine  : 

This  life,  which  I  have  dared  invoke, 
Henceforth  is  parallel  with  thine. 


Doubts,  hopes,  in  eager  tumult  rise  ; 

Hear,  O  my  God  !  one  earnest  prayer  : 
Room  for  my  bird  in  Paradise, 

And  give  her  angel  plumage  there! 

15 


170  TO    MRS.    JUDSON. 


TO  MRS.  JUDSON. 

SUGGESTED   BY   HER   POEM    "  MY   BIRD." 

AND  does  thy  bird,  so  loved,  so  fair, 
Still  with  its  presence  bless  thy  home  ? 

Then  thou  indeed,  most  happy  there, 
For  earthly  joys  need'st  never  roam. 

But  ah  !  a  bird  as  fair  as  thine  — 

And  fairer  earth  hath  never  known  — 

I  once  could  call,  with  fondness,  mine ; 
But  now,  alas !  that  bird  hath  flown. 

O  long,  full  long,  mayst  thou  be  spared 
The  anguish  that  my  heart  doth  know, 

And  with  glad  songs  may  thy  sweet  bird 
Cheer  thee  wherever  thou  shalt  go. 

And  as  it  learns,  when  thou  art  lone, 
To  charm  thee  with  its  sweetest  lays, 

Then  thou  canst  teach  that  infant  voice 
To  soar  to  heaven  in  grateful  praise. 

And  O,  did  not  old  "  ocean  roll " 
Between  thy  happy  home  and  mine, 

I'd  hasten  to  thy  Indian  cot, 

And  share  thy  joys  —  yes,  even  thine  ! 


@ 

MRS.  JUDSON'S  BURIAL  AT  ST.  HELENA.          171 

I'd  woo  that  little  bird  to  me, 

And  fold  it  to  my  throbbing  breast, 
And  there  in  safety  might  it  lie, 

Where  late  my  own  was  all  so  blest. 

Say,  when  at  night  thy  "  birdling  "  fair 

Doth  fold  its  tiny  wings  to  rest, 
Wilt  thou  not  crave,  in  secret  prayer, 

Blessings  on  this  deserted  nest  ? 


MRS.  JUDSON'S  BURIAL  AT  ST.  HELENA. 


MOURNFULLY,  tenderly, 

Bear  onward  the  dead, 
Where  the  warrior  has  lain, 

Let  the  Christian  be  laid  ; 
No  place  more  befitting, 

O  Rock  of  the  sea  ! 
Never  such  treasure 

Was  hidden  in  thee. 

Mournfully,  tenderly, 

Solemn  and  slow, — 
Tears  are  bedewing 

The  path  as  ye  go  ; 
Kindred  and  strangers 

Are  mourners  to-day ; 
Gently — so,  gently, 

O,  bear  her  away. 


172          MRS.  JUDSON'S  BURIAL  AT  ST.  HELENA. 

Mournfully,  tenderly, 

Gaze  on  that  brow ; 
Beautiful  is  it 

In  quietude  now ; 
One  look !  and  then  settle 

The  loved  to  her  rest, 
The  ocean  beneath  her, 

The  turf  on  her  breast. 

So  have  ye  buried  her  — 

Up  !  and  depart 
To  life  and  to  duty 

With  undismayed  heart : 
Fear  not  —  for  the  love 

Of  the  stranger  will  keep 
The  casket  that  lies 

In  the  Rock  of  the  deep. 

Peace  !  peace  to  thy  bosom, 

Thou  servant  of  God  ! 
The  vale  thou  art  treading 

Thou  hast  before  trod  ; 
Precious  dust  thou  hast  laid 

By  the  Hopia  tree, 
And  treasure  as  precious 

In  the  Rock  of  the  sea. 


EARLY    PIETY.  173 


EARLY  PIETY. 

Ecclesiastes,  xii.  1 

O,  COME,  pluck  sweet  flowers 
In  life's  earliest  hours, 

Entwine  a  bright  wreath  for  thy  brow  ; 
That  their  fragrance  may  last 
When  thy  skies  are  o'ercast, 

Their  perfume  around  thy  path  throw. 

When  thy  young  eye  is  bright, 
When  thy  spirits  are  light, 

Go,  gather  the  sweet  flowers  of  love  ; 
Let  meekness  and  truth 
Be  the  flowers  of  thy  youth, 

And  that  kindness  which  comes  from  above. 

Let  wisdom  direct 

Thy  young  hand  to  select 

Those  flowerets  which  never  decay  ; 
Let  faith  and  hope  bind 
A  bouquet  for  the  mind, 

Fading  not  in  life's  wintry  day. 

Let  the  pages  of  truth 
Fill  thy  memory,  in  youth, 

With  their  precepts  and  lessons  sublime  ; 
With  a  peace-loving  mind, 
With  good  will  to  mankind, 

Those  jewels  untarnished  by  time. 


174  TO    MY    SISTER    WITH    A   BIBLE. 


TO  MY  SISTER  WITH  A  BIBLE. 

MY  sister, 
The  Bible. 
God's  holy  word, 

Which  he  to  sinful  man  has  given ; 
Bright  morning  star, 
The  only  star 
To  point  the  wanderer  home  to  Heaven. 

My  sister, 
The  Bible. 
The  only  mirror 

Which  shows  to  man  his  base  behavior 
To  Him  who  died, 
The  crucified, 
But  now  the  great  —  the  risen  Savior. 

My  sister, 
The  Bible. 
A  brother's  gift ; 
A  gift  to  prize  above  all  others ; 
It  gives  you  light, 
It  brings  you  life, 
It  brings  you  love  beyond  a  brother's. 

My  sister, 

The  Bible. 

O,  prize  it  well ; 

'Tis  heaven's  chart  to  guide  you  home 
To  worlds  of  light, 
Where,  robed  in  white, 
The  Savior,  smiling,  bids  you  come. 


==@ 

TIME.  175 


TIME. 


As  swift  as  a  river, 

Our  time  passes  on  ; 
And  sooner  or  later, 

Its  streams  will  be  gone. 
How  lovely  the  budding 

Of  life's  early  morn  ! 
How  sad  are  the  feelings 

When  pleasures  are  gone  ! 
But  time,  in  its  fleetness, 

Runs  smooth  over  me  ; 
Why  should  I  repine,  then, 

Who  am  joyful  and  free  ? 
But  death,  in  its  darkness, 

Comes  onward  at  last, 
And  sooner  or  later 

Its  stream  will  be  past. 
How  pleasant  the  parting, 

Life's  drama  played  well, 
How  joyful  the  feelings, 

Which  words  cannot  tell ! 
Then  let  us  be  joyful, 

And  glad  let  us  be, 
Till  death,  in  its  darkness, 

Shall  set  us  all  free  ! 


176  HAPPINESS. 


HAPPINESS. 


ALL  who  enter  on  the  world  are  in  pursuit  of 
happiness.  Each  one  questions  of  another  where 
it  is ;  or  fancies  he  perceives  it  from  afar  ;  but  very 
few  confess  that  they  have  found  it.  The  young, 
starting  into  life  with  sanguine  hopes  and  spirits  gay, 
expect  it  every  where:  the  more  experienced,  hav- 
ing sought  it  long  and  found  it  not,  decide  that  it  is 
nowhere.  The  moralist  tells  us  there  is  no  such 
thing  ;  and  the  historian  almost  proves  it  by  the 
miseries  he  details.  Poverty  says,  "  It  is  not  with 
me  ;  "  and  Wealth  says,  "  Not  with  me."  Splendor 
dashes  by  the  cottage  door,  heaves  the  rich  jewel  on 
her  bosom  with  a  sigh,  and  says  that  the  dwellers 
there  are  happier  than  she  is.  Penury  looks  out 
upon  her  as  she  passes,  loathes  her  own  portion,  and 
silently  envies  what  she  must  not  share.  Igno- 
rance, with  dazzled  and  misjudging  eye,  admires 
the  learned,  and  esteems  them  happy.  Learning 
decides  that  "  ignorance  is  bliss,"  and  bewails  the 
enlargement  of  capacity  it  cannot  find  enough  to 
fill.  Wherever  we  ask,  the  answer  is  still,  "  Seek 
farther."  Is  it  so,  then,  that  there  is  no  happiness 
on  earth  ?  Or  if  it  does  exist,  is  it  a  thing  of  cir- 


HAPPINESS.  177 


cumstance,  confined  to  certain  states,  dependent  on 
rank  and  station  ;  here  to-day  and  gone  to-morrow ; 
in  miserable  dependence  on  the  casualties  of  life  ? 
We  are  often  asked  the  question  by  those  by  whom 
the  world  is  yet  untried,  who,  even  in  the  spring- 
time of  their  mirth,  are  used  to  hear  the  complaints 
of  all  around  them  ;  and  well  may  wonder  what 
they  mean.  We  affect  not  to  answer  questions 
which  never  yet  were  answered ;  but  we  can  tell  a 
story  of  something  that  our  ear  has  heard,  and  our 
eye  has  seen,  and  that  many  besides  can  testify  to 
be  the  truth. 

Distant  something  more  than  a  mile  from  the 
village  of  Desford,  in  Leicestershire,  at  the  lower 
extremity  of  a  steep  and  rugged  lane,  was  seen  an 
obscure  and  melancholy  hovel.  The  door  stood  not 
wide  to  invite  observation  ;  the  cheerful  fire  gleamed 
not  through  the  casement  to  excite  attention  from 
the  passenger.  The  low  roof  and  outer  wall  were 
but  just  perceived  among  the  branches  of  the  hedge- 
row, uncultured  and  untrimmed,  that  ran  between 
it  and  the  road.  As  if  there  were  nothing  there 
that  any  one  might  seek,  no  way  of  access  pre- 
sented itself;  and  the  step  of  curiosity  that  would 
persist  in  finding  entrance,  must  pass  over  mud  and 
briers  to  obtain  it.  Having  reached  the  door  with 
difficulty,  a  sight  presented  itself  such  as  the  eye 
of  delicacy  is  not  used  to  look  upon.  It  was  not 
the  gay  contentedness  of  peasant  life,  that  poets 
tell  of,  and  prosperity  sometimes  stoops  to  envy.. 

i  =® 


178  HAPPINESS. 


It  was  not  the  laborer  resting  from  his  toil,  the 
ruddy  child  exulting  in  its  hard,  scant  meal,  the 
housewife  singing  blithely  at  her  wheel,  the  repose 
of  health  and  fearlessness  —  pictures  that  so  often 
persuade  us  Happiness  has  her  dwelling  in  the  cabins 
of  the  poor. 

The  room  was  dark  and  dirty  ;  there  was  nothing 
on  the  walls  but  the  bare  beams,  too  ill  joined  to 
exclude  the  weather,  with  crevices  in  vain  attempt- 
ed to  be  stopped  by  torn  and  moulded  paper.  A 
few  broken  utensils  hung  about  the  room :  a  table 
and  some  broken  chairs  were  all  the  furniture,  ex- 
cept what  seemed  intended  for  a  bed,  yet  promised 
little  repose.  The  close  and  smoky  atmosphere  of 
the  apartment  gave  to  it  the  last  coloring  of  dis- 
comfort and  disease.  Within  there  sat  a  figure  such 
as  the  pencil  well  might  choose  for  the  portrait 
of  wretchedness.  Quite  gray,  and  very  old,  and 
scarcely  cldthed,  a  woman  was  seen  sitting  by  the 
fireplace,  seemingly  unconscious  of  all  that  passed 
around  her.  Her  features  were  remarkably  large, 
and  in  expression  harsh  :  her  white  hair,  turned  back 
from  the  forehead,  hung  uncombed  from  her  shoul- 
ders ;  her  withered  arm,  stretched  without  emotion 
on  her  knee,  in  form  and  coloring  seemed  nothing 
that  had  lived ;  her  eye  was  fixed  on  the  wall  be- 
fore her  —  an  expression  of  suffering,  and  a  faint 
movement  of  the  lip,  alone  giving  token  of  exist- 
ence. 

Placed  with  her  back  towards  the  door,  she  per- 


HAPPINESS.  179 


ceived  not  the  intrusion,  and  while  I  paused  to  lis- 
ten and  to  gaze,  I  might  have  determined  that  here 
at  least  was  a  spot  where  happiness  could  not  dwell  ; 
one  being,  at  least,  to  whom  enjoyment  upon  earth 
must  be  forbidden  by  external  circumstance  —  with 
whom  to  live  was  of  necessity  to  be  wretched. 
Well  might  the  listener  in  such  a  scene  as  this  be 
startled  by  expressions  of  delight,  strangely  con- 
trasted with  the  murmurs  we  are  used  to  hear  amidst 
the  world's  abundance.  But  it  was  even  so.  From 
the  pale,  shrivelled  lips  of  this  poor  woman  we  heard 
a  whispering  expression  of  enjoyment,  scarcely  ar- 
ticulate, yet  not  so  low  but  that  we  could  distinguish 
the  words  "delightful,"  "happy." 

As  we  advanced  with  the  hesitation  of  disgust 
into  the  unsightly  hovel,  the  old  woman  looked  at. 
us  with  kindness,  but  without  emotion,  bade  us  be 
seated,  and,  till  questioned,  showed  very  little  in- 
clination to  speak.  Being  asked  how  she  did,  she 
at  first  replied,  "Very  ill;"  then  hastily  added, 
"  My  body  is  ill  — but  I  am  well,  very  well."  And 
then  she  laid  her  head  upon  a  cold,  black  stone,  pro- 
jecting from  the  wall  beside  the  fireplace,  as  if  un- 
able to  support  it  longer.  We  remarked  that  it  was 
bad  weather.  "  Yes,"  she  answered — .then  hastily 
correcting  herself,  "  No,  not  bad  —  it  is  God  Al- 
mighty's weather,  and  cannot  be  bad."  "Are  you 
in  pain  ? "  we  asked  —  a  question  scarcely  necessary, 
so  plainly  did  her  movements  betray  it.  "Yes, 
always  in  pain  —  but  not  such  pain,  as  my  Savior 


'--  @ 

180  HAPPINESS. 

suffered  for  me  ;  his  pain  was  far  worse  than  mine 
—  mine  is  nothing  to  it."  Some  remark  being 
made  on  the  wretchedness  of  her  dwelling,  her  stern 
features  almost  relaxed  into  a  smile,  and  she  said 
she  did  not  think  it  so ;  and  wished  us  all  as  happy 
as  herself. 

As  she  showed  little  disposition  to  talk,  and  never 
made  any  remark  till  asked  for  it,  and  then  in  words 
as  few  and  simple  as  might  express  her  meaning,  it 
was  slowly  and  by  repeated  questions  that  we  could 
draw  from  her  a  simple  tale.  Being  asked  if  that 
was  all  the  bed  she  had  on  which  to  sleep,  she  said 
she  seldom  slept,  and  it  was  now  a  long  time  since 
she  had  been  able  to  undress  herself ;  but  it  was  on 
that  straw  she  passed  the  night.  We  asked  her  if 
the  night  seemed  not  very  long.  "  No  —  not  long," 
she  answered  —  "  never  long.  I  think  of  God  all 
night;  and,  when  the  cock  crows,  am  surprised  that 
the  morning  has  come  so  soon."  "  And  the  days  — 
you  sit  here  all  day,  in  pain  and  unable  to  move  — 
are  the  days  not  long?"  "  How  can  they  be  long  ? 
Is  not  He  with  me?  Is  it  not  all  up — up?"  an 
expression  she  often  made  use  of  to  describe  the 
joyful  elevation  of  her  mind.  On  saying  she  passed 
much  time  in  prayer,  she  was  asked  what  she  prayed 
for  ?  To  this  she  always  answered,  "  O,  to  go, 
you  know  —  to  go  —  when  He  pleases;  not  till  He 
pleases."  To  express  the  facility  she  found  in 
prayer,  she  once  said,  it  seemed  as  if  her  prayers 
were  all  laid  out  ready  for  her  in  bed.  But  time 


HAPPINESS.  181 


would  fail  us  to  repeat  the  words,  brief  as  they 
were,  in  which  this  aged  saint  expressed  her  grat- 
itude to  the  Savior  who  died  for  her ;  her  enjoy- 
ment of  the  God  who  abode  with  her ;  her  expec- 
tations of  the  heaven  to  which  she  was  hasting, 
and  perfect  contentedness  with  her  earthly  portion. 
It  proved,  on  inquiry,  to  be  worse  than  it  appeared. 
The  outline  of  her  history,  as  gathered  at  different 
times  from  her  own  lips,  was  this  :  — 

Her  husband's  name  was  Peg;  her  own,  Mary: 
she  had  long  been  remembered  in  the  village,  as 
living  in  extreme  poverty,  going  about  to  beg  bacon 
at  Christmas-time.  Her  youth  had  been  passed  in 
services  of  various  kinds ;  and  though  she  did  not 
know  her  age,  it  appeared,  from  public  events  which 
she  remembered  to  have  passed  when  she  was  a 
girl,  that  she  could  not  be  less  than  eighty.  Later 
in  life  she  had  kept  sheep  upon  the  forest  hills,  and, 
in  the  simplicity  of  her  heart  would  speak  of  her 
days  of  prosperity,  when  she  had  two  sheep  of  her 
own.  She  could  not  read,  but  from  attending  di- 
vine service  had  become  familiar  with  the  language 
of  Scripture.  We  know  nothing  of  her  previous 
character  :  that  of  her  husband  and  family  was  very 
bad :  but  we  are  not  informed  that  hers  was  so. 
The  first  earnest  religious  feeling  she  related  of 
herself,  was  felt  when  walking  alone  in  the  fields  ; 
she  bethought  herself  of  her  hard  fate  —  a  youth 
of  toil,  an  old  age  of  want  and  misery  — and  if  she 
must  be  miserable  at  last,  how  dreadful  was  her  por- 

@ 

16 


182  HAPPINESS. 


tion  !  Struck  with  the  appalling  thought,  she  knelt 
down  beneath  the  hedge  to  pray  —  the  first  time, 
perhaps,  that  heart-felt  and  earnest  prayer  had  gone 
up  to  heaven  from  her  lips. 

Not  very  long  after  this,  as  we  understood,  the 
old  woman  was  taken  ill,  and  unable  to  move  from 
the  straw,  at  that  time  her  only  bed,  in  a  loft  over 
the  apartment  we  have  described ;  where,  little 
sheltered  by  the  broken  roof,  and  less  by  the  rags 
that  scarcely  covered  her,  she  lay  exposed  to  the 
inclemencies  of  the  weather,  without  money  to 
support,  or  a  friend  to  comfort  her.  It  was  in  this 
situation  that  her  mind,  dwelling  probably  on  things 
that  in  health  passed  by  her  unregarded,  received 
the  strong  and  lasting  impression  of  a  vision  she 
thought  she  beheld,  probably  in  a  dream ;  though 
she  herself  believed  she  was  waking.  In  -idea  she 
saw  the  broad  road  and  the  narrow,  as  described  in 
Scripture.  In  the  broad  road,  to  use  her  own  ex- 
pressions, there  were  many  walking  ;  it  was  smooth 
and  pleasant,  and  they  got  on  fast ;  but  the  end  of 
it  was  dark.  On  the  narrow  road  she  herself  was 
treading,  and  some  few  others ;  but  the  way  was 
rugged:  some  turned  back,  and  others  sat  down, 
unable  to  proceed.  She  herself  advanced  till  she 
reached  a  place  more  beautiful,  she  said,  than  any 
thing  to  which  she  could  compare  it.  When  asked 
what  it  was  like,  she  could  not  say,  but  that  it  was 
very  bright,  and  that  there  were  many  sitting  there. 
Being  questioned  who  these  were,  she  said  they 

—=(o) 


©= 


HAPPINESS.  183 


were  like  men  and  women,  but  larger  and  far  more 
beautiful,  and  all  dressed  in  "  glitterings ;  "  —  such 
was  her  expression  ;  —  and  one  was  more  beautiful 
than  the  rest,  whom  she  knew  to  be  the  Savior, 
because  of  his  readiness  and  kindness  in  receiving 
her.  But  the  most  pleasing  impression  seemed  to 
be  left  by  the  hallelujahs  this  company  were  sing- 
ing. She  was  told  by  Him  she  knew  to  be  the 
Savior^  that  she  must  go  back  for  a  little  time,  and 
then  should  come  again  to  dwell  with  them  forever. 
Thus  ended  her  vision  ;  but  not  so  the  impression 
it  made.  The  recollection  of  the  scene  she  had 
witnessed,  and  of  the  bliss  that  had  been  promised 
her,  seemed  to  lead  her  to  the  source  of  all  her  hap- 
piness. Turning  her  eye  from  earth  to  heaven,  arid 
fixing  all  her  thoughts  on  that  eternity  to  which  she 
was  hastening,  it  left  her,  not  what  she  before  had 
been,  wretched  on  earth,  and  unmindful  of  any  thing 
beyond ;  but  with  a  heart  deeply  impressed  with 
the  love  and  mercy  of  God  ;  fully  and  undoubtingly 
relying  on  her  Savior's  promise,  and  proving  the 
reality  of  those  feelings  by  earnest  devotion,  and 
most  cheerful  acquiescence  in  her  Maker's  will.  It 
was  not  the  fervor  of  a  first  impression  —  the  en- 
thusiasm of  an  excited  imagination.  She  survived 
six  or  seven  years,  but  time  made  no  change  in  her 
feelings.  She  passed  those  years  in  the  extreme  of 
poverty,  dependent  on  the  alms  of  some  few  persons 
who  knew  and  visited  her  :  she  passed  them  in  pain 
and  helplessness ;  mocked  and  ill  treated  by  'her 


@  @ 

184  HAPPINESS. 

husband  and  her  sons,  and  insulted  often  by  her 
unfeeling  neighbors,  who  came  to  laugh  at  her  de- 
votion and  ridicule  her  hopes. 

For  these,  as  well  as  for  some  who  visited  her 
for  kinder  purposes,  she  had  but  one  answer  —  she 
wished  them  all  like  her ;  prayed  that  they  might 
only  be  as  happy  as  herself.  When  told  what  she 
had  seen  was  a  mere  dream  and  a  delusion,  she  said 
it  did  not  signify  to  tell  her  that  —  she  had  seen  it, 
and  it  was  the  recollection  of  it  that  made  her 
nights  so  short  and  her  days  so  happy.  "  And  what 
does  it  signify,"  she  added,  "  that  they  swear  at  me, 
and  tell  me  I  am  a  foolish  old  woman  —  don't  I 
know  how  happy  I  am  ?" 

During  the  many  years  that  she  survived,  the 
minister  of  the  parish  saw  her  frequently,  and  found 
little  variation  in  her  feelings,  none  in  her  firm  ad- 
herence to  the  tale  she  at  first  had  told  ;  and  the 
persuasion  that  what  she  had  seen  was  a  blessed 
reality,  sufficient  to  make  her  happy  in  every  ex- 
treme of  earthly  wretchedness.  And  he  saw  her 
die,  as  she  had  lived,  in  holy,  calm,  and  confident 
reliance  on  her  Savior's  promises. 

To  what  I  have  written,  I  could  find  much  to 
add,  having  notes  of  all  that  passed  during  the  pro- 
tracted years  of  this  devoted  woman's  life.  But  my 
purpose  is  not  to  make  a  story.  I  have  witnessed 
only  to  what  I  saw,  and  repeated  only  what  my  ear 
has  listened  to.  And  I  have  repeated  it  but  to  prove 
that  the  happiness  which  all  men  seek,  and  most 


HAPPINESS.  185 


complain  they  find  not,  has  sometimes  an  abode 
where  we  should  least  expect  to  find  it.  This  is 
an  extreme  case ;  extreme  in  mental  enjoyment,  as 
in  external  misery.  But  it  is  true.  And  if  it  be  so, 
that  a  being  debarred  the  most  common  comforts 
of  life,  almost  of  the  light  and  air  of  heaven,  suf- 
fering, and  incapable  even  to  clothe  herself,  or 
cleanse  her  unsightly  dwelling,  could  yet  pass  years 
of  so  much  happiness,  that  her  warmest  expression 
of  gratitude  to  her  benefactors  was  to  wish  them  a 
portion  as  happy  as  her  own,  — what  are  we  to  say 
to  those,  who,  amid  the  overflow  of  earthly  good, 
make  the  wide  world  resound  with  their  complain- 
ings? How  are  we  to  understand  it,  that,  while 
blessings  are  showered  around  us  as  the  summer 
rain,  there  is  so  little  real  happiness  on  earth  ?  Be- 
cause we  seek  it  not  aright  —  we  seek  it  where  it  is 
not,  in  outward  circumstance  and  external  good,  and 
neglect  to  seek  it,  where  alone  it  dwells,  in  the  close 
chambers  of  the  bosom.  We  would  have  a  happi- 
ness in  time,  independent  of  eternity ;  we  would 
have  it  independent  of  the  Being  whose  it  is  to  give ; 
and  so  we  go  forth,  each  one  as  best  we  may,  to  seek 
out  the  rich  possession  for  ourselves.  But  disap- 
pointment attends  every  step  in  the  pursuit  of  hap- 
piness, until  we  seek  it  where  alone  it  can  be  found. 


16* 


— =@ 

186  MUSINGS. 


MUSINGS. 


SPEAK  gently 
My  name,  when  I  rest  with  the  dead  ; 

Tread  lightly 
The  turf  that  lies  over  my  head  : 

Plant  flowers, 
To  bloom  o'er  the  place  where  I  sleep, 

And  willows, 
Whose  branches  shall  over  me  weep. 

O,  come  there, 
When  spring's  gentle  breezes  do  play, 

And  sing  there  — 
Sing  o'er  me  a  low,  mournful  lay  : 

At  evening, 
When  fragrance  floats  soft  on  the  air, 

Then  kneel  there, 
And  offer  thy  deep,  fervent  prayer. 

Let  me  die 
When  the  sun  slowly  sinks  to  his  rest ; 

When  his  beams 
Brightly  play  round  his  home  in  the  west : 

As  softly 
As  fades  daylight's  last  trembling  ray, 

So  gently 
My  spirit  would  then  pass  away. 

<§) 


•CO. 

SPARGE    ROSAS.  187 


SPARGE  ROSAS. 


Sparge  rosas :  sprinkle  roses  — 
Thus  Venusia's  minstrel  taught  — 

Where  each  loving  heart  reposes, 
Where  its  sweetest  joys  are  sought. 

Sparge  rosas :  scatter  roses 
Round  the  dancer's  flying  feet  • 

They  are  Venus'  chosen  symbol, 
'Mid  the  halls  where  graces  meet. 

Sparge  rosas  :  crown  with  roses 
Every  head  at  friendship's  feast ; 

Type  of  silence  —  none  discloses 
What  is  uttered  here,  at  least. 

Sparge  rosas  :  crown  with  roses 
Maiden  to  the  altar  led  ; 

Pure  the  .wreath,  amid  her  tresses, 
As  the  heart  her  love  shall  wed. 

Sparge  rosas  :  sprinkle  roses  ; 

Be  their  sweetest  odor  shed  — 
Pledge  of  faithful,  fond  affection — 

Round  the  sacred  bridal  bed. 

Co)-  


188  SPARGE    ROSAS. 


Sparge  rosas  :  sprinkle  roses 
All  along  the  weary  way  ; 

Earth  's  a  desert ;   scarce  reposes 
On  its  waste  a  kindly  ray. 

Sparge  rosas  :  sprinkle  roses  ; 

Thorns  enough  spontaneous  grow 
Comfort  needeth  cultivation  ; 

Pain  and  hardship  all  shall  know. 

Sparge  rosas  :  sprinkle  roses, 
Roses  sweet  of  peace  and  love  ; 

Hate  and  discord  strive  to  banish, 
Strive  to  good  the  race  to  move. 

Sparge  rosas :  sprinkle  roses 
O'er  the  silvered  brow  of  age  ; 

Let  the  last  of  earth  they  witness 
Be  their  life's  serenest  page. 

Sparge  rosas :  sprinkle  roses 
O'er  the  corpse  of  tender  age  ; 

Sprinkle  roses,  now  decaying, 
O'er  the  seventy  winters'  sage. 

Sparge  rosas  :  sprinkle  roses, 
That  dispel  the  mournful  gloom 

That  around  the  spirit  hovers, 
As  we  gaze  upon  the  tomb. 


(o. 

PASSING   AWAY.  189 


PASSING  AWAY. 


IT  is  written  on  the  rose, 

In  its  glory's  full  array  — 

Read  what  those  buds  disclose  — 

"  Passing  away." 

It  is  written  on  the  skies 

Of  the  soft  blue  summer  day  ; 

It  is  traced  in  sunset's  dyes  — 

"  Passing  away." 

It  is  written  on  the  trees, 

As  their  young  leaves  glistening  play, 

And  on  brighter  things  than  these  — 

"  Passing  away." 

It  is  written  on  the  brow 
Where  the  spirit's  ardent  ray 
Lives,  burns,  and  triumphs  now  — 

"  Passing  away." 

It  is  written  on  the  heart  — 

Alas!  that  there  decay 

Should  claim  from  love  a  part  — 

"  Passing  away." 

Friends,  friends !  —  O,  shall  we  meet 

In  a  land  of  purer  day, 

Where  lovely  things,  and  sweet, 

Pass  not  away  ? 


190  EVERGREENS. 

Shall  we  know  each  other's  eyes, 
And  the  thoughts  that  in  them  lay, 
When  the  mingled  sympathies  — 

"  Passing  away  ?  " 

O,  if  this  may  be  so, 

Speed,  speed,  thou  closing  day  ! 

How  blest,  from  earth's  vain  show 

To  pass  away ! 


EVERGREENS. 

~^~ 
WHEN  summer's  sunny  hues  adorn 

Sky,  forest,  hill,  and  meadow, 
The  foliage  of  the  evergreens, 

In  contrast,  seems  a  shadow. 

But  when  the  tints  of  autumn  have 

Their  sober  reign  asserted, 
The  landscape  that  cold  shadow  shows 

Into  a  light  converted. 

Thus  thoughts  that  frown  upon  our  mirth 

Will  smile  upon  our  sorrow, 
And  many  dark  fears  of  to-day 

May  be  bright  hopes  to-morrow. 


WITHERED    LEAVES.  191 


WITHERED  LEAVES. 


How  sad  it  is  in  autumn 

To  watch  the  flowers  decay, 
As  one  by  one  the  faded  leaves 

Drop  from  the  stalk  away  ! 
The  breezes  murmur  plaintively 

'Mid  the  branches  of  the  trees, 
Sighing  a  dirge-like  melody 

Over  the  withered  leaves. 

From  the  sapling  to  the  oak-tree, 

All,  all  their  leaves  must  shed  : 
In  the  fields  and  in  the  gardens, 

They  are  lying  sear  and  dead. 
O,  pass  them  not  unheeded, 

But  learn,  while  yet  you  may, 
The  sweetly  solemn  messages 

They  silently  convey. 

The  heart  knows  many  an  autumn  — 

Its  brightest  hopes  decay, 
Like  flowers  that  bloom  in  summer, 

Then  quickly  pass  away. 
The  lovely  visions  vanished, 

O'er  which  the  fond  heart  grieves  — 
The  treasured  ones  departed  — 

These  are  our  withered  leaves. 


192  PRETTY    WOMEN. 


PRETTY   WOMEN. 


I  HAVE  often  wondered  why  there  were  no  pro- 
fessed beauties  now-a-days,  while  every  past  age  can 
boast  its  Helens ;  our  generation  may  number  many 
pretty  faces,  but  it  is  the  only  one  among  the  thou- 
sands already  counted,  that  produces  no  beauties 
whose  name  shall  descend  imperishably  to  the  gen- 
erations yet  to  come. 

We  cannot  open  a  page  of  history  that  does  not 
record  the  fame  of  some  beauty ;  the  Bible  has  its 
Rachel, — so  lovely  that  twenty  years  of  service 
were  deemed  a  light  fee  for  her  affections  ;  the 
world  was  lost  for  Cleopatra;  the  beautiful  mistresses 
of  the  French  kings  ruled  that  world  through  the 
hearts  of  their  imperial  lovers ;  even  down  to  the 
days  of  George  IV.  there  has  always  been  some 
lady  whose  charms  have  been  more  powerful  than 
monarchs  and  prime  ministers. 

But  I  think  the  problem  may  be  solved  :  it  is  the 
difference  of  dress,  —  costume  does  it  all;  revive 
the  robings  of  by-gone  ages,  and  you  will  revive 
all  the  beauty  and  the  ugliness  of  those  days.  For 
there  must  have  been  a  good  deal  of  ugliness,  other- 


PRETTY    WOMEN.  193 


wise  beauty  would  not  have  been  so  forcibly  appre- 
ciated ;  had  there  been  more  pretty  girls  in  the  days 
of  Troy,  Helen  would  have  had  few  suitors,  and 
Ilium  might  have  been  standing  yet.  What  I  mean 
to  say  is  this  —  in  those  times  people  dressed  so  un- 
becomingly, that  unless  their  features  were  perfect, 
they  were  literally  nothing ;  all  the  mirror  graces 
which  set  off  a  mediocre  person  now  were  totally 
unavailable  under  that  system  of  costume. 

For  instance,  Helen  must  have  worn  a  loose  robe, 
a  broad  girdle,  bare  arms,  sandals  on  her  feet,  and 
her  hair  bound  back  in  those  rich,  magnificent  braids, 
termed  to  this  day  "  Grecian  plaits." 

But  imagine  for  a  moment  all  your  acquaintances 
dressed  in  this  way.  Would  not  the  majority  be 
frightful  ?  How  few  faces,  how  few  complexions, 
could  stand  that  banding  back  of  the  thick  hair ! 
how  few  forms  would  show  well  beneath  the  sim- 
ple robe,  without  stays  or  stiff  petticoats  !  how  few 
feet  would  be  endurable  in  sandals !  how  few  arms 
would  bear  the  noonday  sun  and  the  sharp  winds, 
which  would  soon  reduce  them  to  the  pattern  and 
form  of  a  washerwoman's ! 

Perhaps  the  Jewish  costume  of  Rebecca  and 
Rachel  may  have  been  a  shade'  better ;  but  here 
was  the"  same  exposure  of  neck  and  arms,  with  the 
additional  disadvantage  of  a  robe  that  showed  a  leg 
encased  in  hideous  boots  and  hose,  and  that  refused 
to  sweep  with  Grecian  amplitude  round  the  limbs 
of  the  fair  wearers. 


194  PRETTY    WOMEN. 


Cleopatra,  who  is  represented  as  being  both  dark 
and  stout,  could  wear  only  the  robes  of  white  or 
purple,  the  heavy  diadem,  the  strings  of  pearls  that 
were  the  allotted  garb  of  Egyptian  princes.  How 
dark  and  how  uncomely  must  have  been  the  ma- 
jority of  her  countrywomen  may  be  judged  from 
the  sensation  she  made. 

The  Roman  ladies  were  famed  for  their  stately 
carriage,  and  somewhat  large  but  noble  features ; 
and  when  to  these  charms  are  added  those  of  reg- 
ularity, and  delicacy,  and  beautiful  coloring,  no 
doubt  their  simple  peu  coquette  style  of  dress  was 
especially  becoming  to  them  ;  but  without  these 
latter  qualifications  how  gaunt  and  coarse  they 
must  have  appeared ! 

What  can  be  more  lovely  than  the  figure  of 
Agrippina  —  bending  that  stately  head  above  the 
ashes  of  Germanicus  ?  The  robe  falls  in  long 
sweeping  folds ;  the  bare  arm,  naked  to  the  shoul- 
der, supports  the  urn  ;  the  hair  braided  back,  the 
smooth  brow,  the  magnificent  eye,  in  its  large  and 
lofty  chamber;  not  a  ribbon,  not  the  gleaming  of  a 
jewel,  breaks  the  calm  outline  or  disturbs  the  severe 
unity.  Perhaps  among  the  circle  of  our  acquaint- 
ance there  are  two  or  three  women  who  would  ap- 
pear to  advantage  so  attired  !  —  but,  O,  how  well 
for  the  dumpy  and  the  scraggy  "  nez  retrousse," 
and  the  "nez  snub,"  that  they  fall  upon  better 
days  ! 

As  we  descend  the  stream  of  time,  the  number 


PRETTY    WOMEN.  195 


of  celebrated  beauties  decreases;  this  we  may  at- 
tribute to  the  increasing  knowledge  of  the  art  of 
dress  ;  indifferent  complexions,  bad  figures,  irregular 
features,  began  to  have  something  like  fair  play 
shown  them ;  exigencies  of  person  met  with  some 
assistance  from  costumes :  and  in  the  same  degree 
as  the  plain  w6men  were  made  to  appear  less  plain, 
were  the  beauties  rendered  less  prominent,  and  the 
distance  between  the  parties  lessened. 

Still  we  hear  of  some  so  strikingly  lovely,  as  to 
be  known  to  all  the  world  by  the  fame  of  their 
eyes  only  ;  of  these  we  may  name  Edith  of  the 
Swan  Neck,  so  called  from  the  brilliant  whiteness 
of  a  skin  capable  of  resisting  the  exposure  to  sun 
and  wind,  which  tanned  and  freckled  into  fright- 
fulness  the  queens  and  lofty  ladies  of  those  rude 
days ;  Rosamond  the  Fair  —  so  fair  that  it  was  said 
of  her,  "None  but  a  jealous  and  exasperated  wo- 
man could  have  harmed  her ; "  Beatrice  Cenci, 
whose  beauty  makes  one  shudder,  so  mysterious 
seems  the  light  in  those  large  untroubled  eyes,  soon 
about  to  close  beneath  the  pressure  of  so  awful  a 
fate ;  Lucrezia  Borgia,  an  angel  in  face,  a  demon 
in  heart ;  Mary  of  Scotland,  whom  "  no  man  ever 
beheld  without  love,"  and  some  few  others,  until 
we  reach  that  famous  trio  recorded  in  the  letters  of 
Horace  Walpole,  as  the  loveliest  women  of  their 
time,  the  Misses  Gunning. 

One  of  these,  the  Duchess  of  Hamilton,  was  so 
renowned  for  her  charms,  that  her  fame  spread  far 


196  PRETTY    WOMEN. 


and  near,  insomuch  that,  when  travelling  once  from 
the  north  to  town,  the  mob,  in  the  places  where  she 
rested  at  nights,  assembled  round  the  hotels,  nor 
would  they  depart  until  she  had  appeared  on  the 
balconies  to  display  to  them  her  world-famed  face. 

And  there  is  something  strangely  sad  in  the  ac- 
count of  the  death  of  another  of  the  sisters,  Lady 
Coventry,  who  perished  of  consumption  while  in 
the  highest  pride  of  youth  and  beauty.  She  is 
recorded  as  patiently  awaiting  the  approach  of  death 
—  her  looking-glass  her  constant  companion — as 
scarcely  ever  removing  her  eyes  from  the  reflection 
of  her  own  face,  and  as  bewailing  only  the  too  early 
extinction  of  a  beauty  worthy  of  immortality. 

At  a  later  time,  when  the  names  of  some  favorite 
beauties  are  again  recorded,  the  costume,  totally  dif- 
ferent, was  so  hideous,  that  no  one  could  wear  it 
with  impunity  —  hence  the  high  reputation  for 
beauty  of  Pauline  Bonaparte  and  Madame  Recamier. 
The  former  is  described  as  appearing  at  a  party, 
given  by  her  mighty  brother,  in  a  tunic  of  white 
muslin,  reaching  little  below  the  knee,  and  com- 
mencing far  below  the  shoulders,  the  waist  exceed- 
ingly short,  and  bound  with  a  narrow  girdle  ;  sandals 
clothed  the  small  feet,  while  a  mantle  of  leopard 
skin  hung  around  the  perfect  form  of  Canova's 
fairest  model. 

And  there  are  many  who  can  remember  the  ap- 
pearance of  Madame  Recamier  in  the  parks  of  Lon- 
don,-.clad  in  a  robe  as  scanty  and  as  simple  —  her 


PRETTY    WOMEN.  197 


dark  hair  wreathed  around  her  head  and  fastened 
with  a  bodkin  to  the  summit,  and  a  scarlet  mantle 
wrapped  around  her. 

Now-a-days,  the  toilet'of  a  lady  is  exactly  con- 
ducted upon  the  principles  most  becoming  to  all ; 
few  figures  look  ill  in  the  sweeping  robes  and 
lengthened  corsage  —  ample  and  stately,  without 
stiffness ;  ankles,  however  thick,  are  concealed  by 
the  long  dresses,  now  the  mode.  Features,  how- 
ever coarse,  can  be  softened  and  shaded  into  some- 
thing like  symmetry,  by  the  judicious  arrangement 
of  locks,  permitted  to  be  worn  in  bands,  or  braids, 
or  ringlets,  just  as  best  suits  the  face  they  surround. 

And  while  no  arbitrary  fashion  forces  the  expo- 
sure of  a  frightful  profile,  a  clumsy  arm,  a  ponderous 
ankle,  no  rule  exists  to  prevent  the  reverse  of  these 
being  shown.  Every  lady  is  at  liberty  to  bring  out 
her  own  "good  points"  as  she  thinks  best,  and  it 
is  easy  to  do  so,  as  well  as  to  conceal  her  weak 
ones,  without  departing  from  the  fashions  that  pre- 
vail. 


17* 


198  THE    SEWING    CIRCLE. 


THE  SEWING  CIRCLE. 

"  I  cannot  stop  to  alter  words  once  written." 

READER,  did  you  ever  go 
Where  the  ladies  meet  to  sew, — 
Needle,  thimble,  thread  in  hand, 
Old  and  young,  a  happy  band  ? 
Take  a  seat  and  hear  the  chat, 
Now  of  this  and  then  of  that  — 
Shoes  or  sofas,  songs  or  bread, 
Books  or  dresses,  lace  or  thread. 
The  last  wedding  and  the  bride, 
And  a  little  world  beside, 
Works  of  genius,  gems  of  art, 
Every  thing  must  have  a  part! 
Then  just  see  the  fingers  fly 
'Mong  those  threads  of  every  dye  ; 
Here  a  fadeless  flower  is  blooming, 
There,  a  bud  no  worm  's  consuming ! 
Pray,  sir,  would  you  like  to  buy  ? 
Here's  a  purse  you'd  better  try  ; 
Filled  with  Benton-mint-drops  fair, 
It  will  make  you  music  rare  ; 
Or,  perhaps,  you'd  like  this  guard  ; 
Fairy  fingers  labored  hard, 
Knot  by  knot,  the  silk  to  tie ; 
Come,  sir,  you  had  better  buy. 

(o)  @ 


INNOCENT    PLEASURES.  199 

Hark !  the  door-bell  —  who  is  there  ? 

"  Ladies, ,  Esquire." 

Then's  renewed  the  merry  hum; 
Gayly  welcomed  as  they  come, 
Father,  brother,  friend,  and  lover, 
Dick,  the  statesman,  Will,  the  rover, 
Help  to  swell  the  careless  ring, 
Laugh  or  chat,  or  sigh  or  sing. 
Time  hath  wings,  the  sages  say  ; 
Sure  to-night  he  would  not  stay  ; 
Soon,  full  soon  the  hour 's  come  round, 
And  we  all  are  "  homeward  bound." 
Here's  a  melee,  —  great  and  small, 
Thronging  through  the  entrance  hall ; 
But  the  night  is  dark  at  best, 
So,  kind  reader guess  the  rest. 


INNOCENT  PLEASURES. 

FEW  rightly  estimate  the  worth 
Of  joys  that  spring  and  fade  on  earth  ; 
They  are  not  weeds  we  should  despise, 
They  are  not  fruits  of  paradise, 
But  wild  flowers  in  the  pilgrim's  way, 
That  cheer,  yet  not  protract  his  stay  — 
Which  he  dare  not  too  fondly  clasp, 
Lest  they  should  perish  in  his  grasp  ; 
And  yet  may  view  and  wisely  love, 
As  proofs  and  types  of  joys  above. 


200  WOMAN    AND    FAME. 


WOMAN  AND  FAME. 


THOU  hast  a  charmed  cup,  O  Fame ! 

A  draught  that  mantles  high, 
And  seems  to  lift  this  earthly  frame 

Above  mortality. 
Away  !  to  me,  a  woman,  bring 
Sweet  waters  from  affection's  spring. 

v  Thou  hast  green  laurel  leaves,  that  twine 

Into  so  proud  a  wreath  ; 
For  that  resplendent  gift  of  thine, 

Heroes  have  smiled  in  death  ; 
Give  me  from  some  kind  hand  a  flower, 
The  record  of  one  happy  hour  ! 

Thou  hast  a  voice,  whose  thrilling  tone 

Can  bid  each  life- pulse  beat, 
As  when  a  trumpet's  note  hath  blown, 

Calling  the  brave  to  meet : 
But  mine,  let  mine,  a  woman's  breast, 
By  words  of  home -born  love  be  blessed. 

Fame,  Fame  !  thou  canst  not  be  the  stay 

Unto  the  drooping  reed, 
The  cool  fresh  fountain  in  the  day 

Of  the  soul's  feverish  need  : 
Where  must  the  lone  one  turn  or  flee  ? 
Not  unto  thee  —  O,  not  to  thee  ! 


DOUBT    NOT.  201 


DOUBT  NOT. 


WHEN  the  day  of  life  is  dreary, 

And  when  gloom  thy  course  enshrouds,  • 
When  thy  steps  are  faint  and  weary, 

And  thy  spirit  dark  with  clouds,  — 
Steadfast  still  in  thy  well-doing, 

Let  thy  soul  forget  the  past ; 
Steadfast  still  the  right  pursuing, 

Doubt  not !  joy  shall  come  at  last. 

Striving  still  and  onward  pressing, 

Seek  no  future  years  to  know, 
But  deserve  the  wished-for  blessing  ; 

It  shall  come,  though  it  be  slow ; 
Never  tiring  —  upward  gazing  — 

Let  thy  fears  aside  be  cast, 
And  thy  trials  tempting,  braving, 

Doubt  not!  joy  shall  come  at  last. 

His  fond  eye  is  watching  o'er  thee  — 

His  strong  arm  shall  be  thy  guard  — 
Duty's  path  is  straight  before  thee  ; 

It  shall  lead  to  thy  reward. 
By  thine  ills  thy  faith  made  stronger, 

Mould  the  future  by  the  past  — 
Hope  on  then  a  little  longer ! 

Doubt  not !  joy  will  come  at  last. 


•Co) 


202  A     SENTIMENT. 


A   SENTIMENT. 


SINCE  in  this  dreary  vale  of  tears 

No  certainty  but  death  appears, 

Why  should  we  waste  our  vernal  years 

In  hoarding  useless  treasure  ? 

No,  —  let  the  young  and  ardent  mind 
Become  the  friend  of  human  kind, 
And  in  the  generous  service  find 

A  source  of  purer  pleasure  ! 

Better  to  live  despised  and  poor, 
Than  guilt's  eternal  stings  endure  ; 
The  future  smile  of  God  shall  cure 

The  wound  of  earthly  woes. 

Vain  world  !  did  we  but  rightly  feel 
What  ills  thy  treacherous  charms  conceal, 
How  would  we  long  from  thee  to  steal 

To  death,  —  and  sweet  repose ! 


NEVER    GIVE    UP.  203 


NEVER  GIVE.  UP. 


NEVER  give  up  !  it  is  wiser  and  better 

Always  to  hope  than  once  to  despair  ; 
Fling  off  the  load  of  doubt's  cankering  fetter, 

And  break  the  dark  spell  of  tyrannical  care ; 
Never  give  up  !  or  the  burden  may  sink  you  — 

Providence  kindly  has  mingled  the  cup, 
And  in  all  trials,  or  troubles,  bethink  you, 

The  watchword  of  life  must  be,  Never  give  up. 

Never  give  up  !  there  are  chances  and  changes 

Helping  the  hopeful  a  hundred  to  one, 
And  through  the  chaos  high  wisdom  arranges 

Every  success,  —  if  you'll  only  hope  on  : 
Never  give  up !  for  the  wisest  is  boldest, 

Knowing  that  Providence  mingles  the  cup, 
And  of  all  maxims  the  best,  as  the  oldest, 

Is  the  true  watchword  of  Never  give  up. 

Never  give  up! — though  the  grape-shot  may  rattle 

Or  the  full  thunder-cloud  over  you  burst, 
Stand  like  a  rock  —  and  the  storm  or  the  battle 

Little  shall  harm  you,  though  doing  their  worst. 
Never  give  up  !  —  if  adversity  presses, 

Providence  wisely  has  mingled  the  cup, 
And  the  best  counsel,  in  all  your  distresses, 

Is  the  stout  watchword  of  Never  give  up ! 


204  YOUNG    WIVES. 


YOUNG   WIVES. 


OF  all  the  springs  of  human  joy  and  love,  which 
divine  compassion  has  opened  in  the  parched  and 
sterile  paths  of  this  weeping  earth,  none  well  up 
with  purer  brightness,  or  deeper  freshness,  to  the 
thirsty  and  craving  heart,  than  the  trustful  tender- 
ness and  tranquil  happiness  of  a  well-balanced 
union. 

Though  the  relation  of  marriage  is  highly  sol- 
emn in  its  moral  bearings,  and  unspeakably  bitter 
in  the  hopeless  woe  it  inflicts  upon  selfish  and  dis- 
cordant natures,  yet  the  sympathy,  support,  and 
serene  confidence  it  bestows  upon  affectionate  and 
elevated  spirits,  are  its  peculiar  gifts.  A  "  mother's 
love  "  is  as  vital  arid  fathomless  as  the  life  of  her 
own  soul ;  but  its  anxious  and  wasting  cares,  and 
trembling  responsibilities,  while  they  root  her  love 
more  deeply,  render  a  husband's  sympathy  and 
affection  the  necessary  aliment  of  her  happiness, 
and  the  rich  reward  of  her  maternal  care  and  devo- 
tion. But,  as  the  tranquillity  of  married  life  is  more 
dependent  upon  the  performance  of  real  duties,  and 
gentle  concessions,  than  fine  sentiment  and  abstract 
theories,  we  would  endeavor  to  present  to  our  young 


YOUNG    WIVES.  205 


married  readers  some  of  its  practical  aspects,  could 
we  select  any  single  view  of  peculiar  importance,  in 
the  vast  accumulation  of  influences  which  operate  in 
domestic  life.  No  expression  of  the 'face,  no  random 
word,  no  habit  of  manner,  or  cadence  of  voice,  is  nn- 
influential  and  unnoted,  at  least  by  memory,  which 
treasures  them  all  up  for  after  thought,  sooner  or 
later. 

If,  then,  previous  negations  become  positive  in- 
fluences in  married  history,  how  serious  must  be 
the  consequences  of  our  actions  and  principles ! 

There  are  some  general  laws  applicable  in  all 
cases :  but  so  various  are  tastes,  temperament,  habits, 
circumstances,  and  position,  that  no  one's  experience 
will  be  fully  adapted  to  the  case  of  any  other.  We 
can  only  throw  out  a  few  remarks,  to  manifest  our 
sympathy  and  interest  for  our  youthful  married 
readers,  who  have  entered  upon  a  path,  the  thorns 
or  flowers  of  which  may,  in  some  instances,  be  of 
their  own  planting.  Providence,  it  seems  to  us,  has 
placed  the  precious  treasure  of  domestic  happiness 
more  especially  in  the  keeping  of  our  own  sex. 
Our  habits,  tastes,  and  truest  attractions  indicate  the 
possession  of  this  most  delicate  and  impalpable  of 
human  influences.  There  are  two  elements  of 
power,  characteristic  of  the  two  sexes,  and  harmo- 
nizing in  effect  when  each  is  exercised  in  its  appro- 
priate sphere.  No  woman  who  has  true  taste  or 
self-respect  would  rob  her  own  brow  of  its  reflected 
glory,  by  casting  her  husband's  crown  of  manhood 

=@ 


206  YOUNG    WIVES. 

beneath  her  feet,  to  gratify  an  unfeminine  and  un- 
dignified love  of  ascendency  and  "  management." 
Her  influence,  like  the  color  and  perfume  of  a  blos- 
som, will  pervade  her  gentler  province  with  its  grace 
and  sweetness,  while  she  honors  his  manly  prerog- 
atives and  nobler  attributes  as  the  highest  compli- 
ment to  her  own  understanding  and  taste. 

Of  the  eminent  Bishop  Kennicott's  wife,  Mrs. 
Hannah  More  wrote,  that  "  she  was  the  object  not 
only  of  her  husband's  affection,  but  of  his  pride  ; 
and  he  loved  her  as  much  from  taste  as  tenderness." 
Such  an  elegant  tribute  to  a  tender  and  high-minded 
wife  far  outweighs  the  brightest  gems  "  of  Ormns 
and  of  Ind." 

Let  not  the  young  wife  simply  imagine  that  the 
marriage  vow  secures  her  all  the  acquisitions,  which 
can  only  be  won  by  the  exhibition  of  actual  qualities 
in  seasons  of  trial  and  duty.  She  has  obtained  the 
lover,  but  she  has  still  a  higher  achievement  to  ac- 
complish. Hopeless  disappointment  and  chilled 
affection,  or  the  slow  and  rich  reward  of  a  husband's 
increasing  tenderness  and  approving  judgment,  are 
now,  like  the  "  lights  and  shadows  "  of  an  April  sky, 
trembling  in  her  bridal  horoscope.  Her  own  prin- 
ciple of  duty  will  "weave  the  warp  and  weave  the 
woof"  of  her  future  lot.  She  has  entered  upon  a 
scene  solemnized  by  serious  claims  and  high  respon- 
sibilities. Her  former  theories  and  present  knowl- 
edge are  useless  to  guide  her  sensitive  arid  appre- 
hensive spirit.  She  must  commence  with  her  own 


©--  — -I 

YOUNG    WIVES,  207 

self-discipline.  Her  poetic  abstractions  of  excel- 
lence must  be  converted  into  tangible  duties,  and 
her  craving  sensibilities  must  nourish,  by  patient 
tenderness,  the  love  that  querulous  demands  would 
weary  and  repel.  She  must  not  only  minister  to 
his  domestic  comfort  and  enjoyment,  but  she  should 
create  in  herself  new  tastes  and  faculties,  and  task 
all  the  deeper  energies  of  her  own  nature,  to  meet 
the  nobler  necessities  of  his  heart  and  mind,  that 
no  other  source  may  be  found  to  supply  to  him  the 
aspirations  and  sympathies  born  of  her  intellect  and 
tenderness. 

When  a  union,  founded  upon  sympathy  and  taste, 
is  sanctified  by  religious  faith,  and  "  made  sure  and 
steadfast "  by  a  "  hope  of  life  everlasting,"  the 
"  spring  "  is  then  fed  from  a  "  fountain  "  whose 
"  living  waters  "  will  nourish  the  roots  of  the  soul's 
nobler  affections 

"  Till  all  be  made  immortal." 


208  ALL    ALONE. 


ALL  ALONE. 


IT  is  not  that  my  lot  is  low, 
That  bids  this  silent  tear  to  flow  ; 
It  is  not  grief  that  bids  me  moan ; 
It  is,  that  I  am  all  alone. 

In  woods  and  glens  I  love  to  roam, 
When  the  tired  hedger  hies  him  home  ; 
Or  by  the  woodland  pool  to  rest, 
When  the  pale  star  looks  on  its  breast. 

Yet  when  the  silent  evening  sighs, 
With  hallowed  airs  and  symphonies, 
My  spirit  takes  another  tone, 
And  sighs  that  it  is  all  alone. 

The  autumn  leaf  is  sear  and  dead  ; 
It  floats  upon  the  water's  bed  : 
I  would  not  be  a  leaf,  to  die 
Without  recording  sorrow's  sigh  ! 

The  woods  and  winds,  with  sullen  wail, 
Tell  all  the  same  unvaried  tale  ; 
I've  none  to  smile  when  I  am  free, 
And  when  I  sigh,  to  sigh  for  me  ! 

Yet  in  my  dreams  a  form  I  view, 
That  thinks  on  me,  and  loves  me  too : 
I  start,  and  when  the  vision  's  flown, 
I  weep  that  I  am  all  alone. 


THE    INVOCATION.  209 


THE  INVOCATION. 


O,  ART  thou  still  on  earth,  my  love  ? 

My  only  love ! 
Or  smiling  in  a  brighter  home, 

Far,  far  above  : 

O,  is  thy  sweet  voice  fled,  my  love  ? 

Thy  light  step  gone  : 
And  art  thou  not,  in  earth  or  heaven, 

Still,  still  my  own  ? 

I  see  thee  with  thy  gleaming  hair, 

In  midnight  dreams! 

But  cold,  and  clear,  and  spirit-like, 

Thy  soft  eye  seems. 

Peace  in  thy  saddest  hour,  my  love, 

Dwell  on  thy  brow  ! 

But  something  mournfully  divine 

There  shineth  now ! 

And  silent  ever  is  thy  lip, 

And  pale  thy  cheek  : 
O,  art  thou  earth's,  or  art  thou  heaven's : 

Speak  to  me,  speak ! 

18* 


210  A    WISH. 


A  WISH. 


I  ASK  not  golden  stores  of  wealth, 

Or  rank,  and  pomp,  and  state  ; 
The  noble's  glittering  coronet, 

The  mansion  of  the  great. 
I  care  not  that  around  my  brow 

Fame's  laurel  wreath  should  twine  ; 
Or  that  on  history's  glowing  page 

My  name  may  proudly  shine. 

I  envy  not  the  calm  retreat, 

From  worldly  noise  and  strife, 
The  lowly  cot,  the  flower-gemmed  path," 

The  simple  joys  of  life. 
I  ask  not  that  in  soft  repose 

My  peaceful  days  may  glide, 
As  the  light  bark  is  borne  along 

The  deep,  unruffled  tide. 

But  this  I  ask  ;   that  while  I  live, 

I  may  not  live  in  vain  ; 
For  I  would  cheer  the  aching  heart, 

And  soothe  the  mourner's  pain ; 
Would  wipe  away  grief's  bitter  tears, 

The  poor  man's  struggles  aid  ; 
And  guide  the  wanderer  back,  whose  steps 

From  virtue's  path  have  strayed. 


LOST    TIME.  "211 


Then,  whether  affluence  and  state 

Shall  be  my  destined  lot, 
Or  'neath  the  humble  cottage  roof 

I  dwell,  it  matters  not ; 
If  I,  by  self-denying  love, 

Earth's  weary  ones  can  bless, 
And  deepen,  as  I  pass  along 

The  stream  of  happiness. 


LOST    TIME. 


I  THREW  a  bubble  to  the  sea ; 

A  billow  caught  it  hastily  ; 

Another  billow  quickly  came, 

Successfully  the  prize  to  claim  : 

From  wave  to  wave,  unchecked  it  passed, 

Till  tossed  upon  a  strand  at  last. 

Thus  glide  unto  the  unknown  shore 

Those  golden  moments  we  deplore  ; 

Those  moments  which,  not  thrown  away, 

Might  win  for  us  eternal  day. 


212  SISTER,    SINCE    I    MET    THEE    LAST. 


SISTER,  SINCE  I  MET  THEE  LAST. 


SISTER,  since  I  met  thee  last, 
O'er  thy  brow  a  change  hath  passed  : 
In  the  softness  of  thine  eyes, 
Deep  and  still,  a  shadow  lies  ; 
From  thy  voice  there  thrills  a  tone 
Never  to  thy  childhood  known  ; 
Through  thy  soul  a  storm  hath  moved  : 
Gentle  sister,  thou  hast  loved  ! 

Yes,  thy  varying  cheek  hath  caught 
Hues  too  bright  from  troubled  thought; 
Far  along  the  wandering  stream, 
Thou  art  followed  by  a  dream  ; 
Jn  the  woods  and  valleys  lone 
Music  haunts  thee  not  thine  own  ; 
Wherefore  fall  thy  tears  like  rain  ? 
Sister,  thou  hast  loved  in  vain  ! 

Tell  me  not  the  tale,  my  flower  ; 
On  my  bosom  pour  that  shower ! 
Tell  me  not  of  kind  thoughts  wasted  ; 
Tell  me  not  of  young  hopes  blasted ; 
Wring  not  forth  one  burning  word  ; 
Let  thy  heart  no  more  be  stirred  : 
Home  alone  can  give  thee  rest ; 
Weep,  sweet  sister,  on  my  breast ! 


TO    LTJCRETIA.  213 


TO   LUCRETIA. 


I'M  sitting  by  thy  side, 

Within  the  old  arm-chair  ; 
The  cushion  's  soft  and  wide, 

The  back  is  high  and  square  ; 
'Tis  like  an  old  French  chaise, 

With  room  for  only  two, — 
A  thing  of  other  days, 

When  rocking-chairs  were  few. 

The  paint  is  fading  fast, 

The  arms  are  smooth  as  horn, 
The  cushion,  too,  at  last, 

Is  sadly  soiled  and  worn  ; 
Its  limbs  are  failing,  too, 

It  totters  now  and  then  ; 
Alack  !  arm-chairs,  'tis  true, 

Decline  as  well  as  men. 

When  first  thou  wert  my  bride, 

Near  forty  years  ago, 
We  sat  thus  side  by  side, 

Just  as  to-night  we  do  ; 
And  thou  wert  young  and  fair, 

Thy  brow  was  white  as  snow,  — 
And  look  at  my  gray  hair, 

'Twas  blacker,  then,  you  know. 


214  WOMAN. 


Thou  'st  been  a  noble  wife, 

Hast  done  thy  duty  well, 
And  both  have  passed  through  life, 

In  peace  no  words  can  tell ; 
And  now  we're  growing  old, 

Approaching  fast  to  death  — 
But  does  thy  love  grow  cold, 

Like  autumn's  chilling  breath  ? 

I  read  it  in  thine  eyes, 

I  feel  it  in  thy  hand, 
I  hear  it  in  thy  sighs, 

Thy  love  with  time  shall  stand. 
We'll  soon  depart  from  earth, 

For  mansions  in  the  skies, 
And  there  they'll  know  thy  worth, 

For  angels  all  are  wise. 


WOMAN. 


I   BELIEVE 

That  woman,  in  her  deepest  degradation, 
Holds  something  sacred,  something  undefiled, 
Some  pledge  and  keepsake  of  her  higher  nature, 
And,  like  the  diamond  in  the  dark,  retains 
Some  quenchless  gleam  of  the  celestial  light. 


MAN    AND    WOMAN.  215 


MAN  AND  WOMAN. 


WE  have  heard  much  said  in  our  time  upon  the 
relative  position  of  the  two  sexes,  have  listened  to 
discussions  in  debating  societies  upon  this  interest- 
ing theme,  and  have  read  a  few  pamphlets,  not  to 
say  volumes,  upon  the  subject,  and  therefore  ought 
to  have  a  pretty  good  knowledge  of  all  that  has 
been  said,  and  all  that  is  possible  to  say  upon  the 
question,  and  the  best  kind  of  a  right  to  settle  it 
beyond  all  further  controversy  or  appeal. 

And  in  the  first  place  we  would  say,  that  the 
question  as  to  superiority  between  the  sexes  can 
never  be  decided  either  way,  for  the  simple  reason 
that  each  is  inferior  and  each  superior,  in  some 
qualities,  to  the  other.  As  it  is  said  of  two  orders 
of  heavenly  beings,  "  The  cherubim  know  most, 
the  seraphim  1'ove  most,"  so  would  we  say  that  the 
man  knows  most,  the  woman  loves  most.  And  it 
were  as  rash  to  say  that  either  man  or  woman  was 
the  superior  being,  as  to-  place  cherub  above  seraph 
or  seraph  above  cherub. 

The  truth  is,  that  in  the  beautiful  order  of  nature, 
the  man  and  woman  together  make  the  perfect  man. 


@  = 

216  MAN    AND    WOMAN. 


Thus  they  were  created,  as  the  Scripture  saith :  "  So 
God  created  man  in  his  own  image ;  in  the  image 
of  God  created  he  him  ;  male  and  female  created  he 
them."  Every  thing  in  this  earth  is  disjointed  and 
imperfect  —  even  the  planets  can  only  attain  their 
grand  circular  marches,  not  from  one  steady  im- 
pulse, but  from  the  union  of  two  different  forces. 
It  is  so  with  every  thing  in  this  world.  Nothing  is 
perfect,  whole,  and  circular ;  all  is  imperfect,  halved, 
and  unfinished.  And  because  this  is  so,  is  it  that 
the  most  perfect  happiness  results  from  the  union  of 
two  congenial  minds.  And  they  are  congenial,  not 
so  much  because  they  resemble  one  another,  in  one 
sense,  but  because  they  join  and  fit  into  one  an- 
other, as  it  were,  and  tend  to  make  up  the  perfect 
soul. 

But  there  are  some  women  that  will  not  be  satis- 
fied with  any  thing  less  than  an  entire  equality,  or 
rather  similarity,  with  men.  These,  however,  are 
very  few,  and  they  have  generally  blundered  into 
such  demands  from  a  consciousness  of  violated 
rights,  not  seeing  exactly  what  those  rights  were. 
We  do  not  believe  that  women  will  ever  equal  men 
in  certain  departments  of  literature,  neither  do  we 
believe  that  men  will  ever  equal  women  in  certain 
other. 

Each  have  their  appropriate  walk,  and  a  mascu- 
line woman  is  as  much  out  of  the  beautiful  order 
of  nature,  as  an  effeminate  man.  What  is  natural 
is  ever  lovely  and  beautiful  to  the  soul,  but  what  is 

@  =< 


MAN    AND    WOMAN.  217 


unnatural  is  repulsive.  We  cannot  go  behind  na- 
ture and  say  why  this  is  so  ;  we  can  only  feel  and 
acknowledge  that  it  is.  Each  sex  has  its  peculiar 
station  and  duties  in  the  world,  else  the  creation  of 
more  than  one  were  superfluous.  Each  has  plenty 
of  work  adapted  to  its  mode  of  thought,  its  peculiar 
feelings,  power,  and  physical  organization.  Let  the 
only  strife,  therefore,  between  the  two,  be  as  to 
which  shall  perform  its  part  most  faithfully  "in  the 
great  Taskmaster's  eye." 


41  THEY  sin  who  tell  us  love  can  die ; 
With  life  all  other  passions  fly, 
All  others  are  but  vanity  : 
In  heaven  ambition  cannot  dwell, 
Nor  avarice  in  the  vaults  of  hell ; 
Earthly  these  passions  of  the  earth, 
They  perish  where  they  have  their  birth. 
But  love  is  indestructible  ; 
Its  holy  flame  forever  burneth  ; 
From  heaven  it  came,  to  heaven  returneth. 
Too  oft  on  earth  a  troubled  guest, 
At  times  deceived,  at  times  oppressed. 
It  here  is  tried  and  purified, 
Then  has  hi  heaven  its  perfect  rest ; 
It  soweth  here  with  toil  and  care, 
But  the  harvest-time  of  love  is  there." 


® 


218  TO    MY   MOTHER. 


TO  MY  MOTHER. 


OFT  I've  thought  of  thee,  my  mother, 

In  the  lonely  hours  of  night, 
While  the  winter  storms  were  sighing 

And  the  stars  had  hid  their  light ; 
Hoarse  the  sleet  came  coldly  beating 

On  the  window's  casement  low, 
Strong  and  vivid  thought  upwaking 

Of  the  homestead  by  the  knowe. 

Backward  to  the  Past  I  wandered, — 

To  the  old  white-bearded  Past,  — 
Then  he  bade  me  sit  beside  him, 

By  the  hand  he  held  me  fast ; 
And,  though  not  a  word  was  spoken,  — 

Not  a  whisper  uttered  low,  — 
Still  he  told  how  thou  didst  love  me 

In  the  homestead  by  the  knowe. 

Straight  he  pointed  to  the  bedside, 

And  I  saw  one  standing  there 
Deeply  listening  to  my  verses, 

And  my  little  rhyming  prayer. 
Heard  I  then  her  gentle  blessing, 

In  a  voice  so  soft  and  low, 
That  I  knew  my  saint-like  mother 

In  the  homestead  by  the  knowe. 


=o 

TO    MY    MOTHER.  219 


Out  he  led  me  by  the  brooklet, 

And  among  the  garden  flowers, 
Blessed  me  with  the  richest  odors 

Caught  from  blossoms  after  showers  ; 
Filled  my  hand  with  ripened  fruitage, 

And  then  bade  me  homeward  go, 
Bearing  all  to  my  dear  mother 

In  the  homestead  by  the  knowe. 

Then  the  good  old  Past  would  leave  me 

With  the  full  tears  in  my  eyes, 
That  our  pathway  is  no  longer 

Hand  in  hand  to  Paradise ; 
Still,  like  circles  o'er  the  water, 

Ever  widening  as  they  flow, 
Comes  thine  influence,  blessed  mother, 

From  the  homestead  by  the  knowe. 

But  thy  step  is  getting  weary, 

And  thine  eye  is  growing  dim ; 
Time  upon  thy  brow  is  writing 

Thou  hast  almost  done  with  him. 
Yet,  dear  mother,  when  thou  diest, 

Gentle  hands  shall  lay  thee  low, 
Kneel  and  bless  thee,  where  thou  liest, 

In  the  homestead  by  the  knowe. 


220  FAREWELL    TO    MY    MOTHER. 


FAREWELL  TO  MY  MOTHER. 


MOTHER,  1  leave  thy  dwelling, 

Thy  counsel,  and  thy  care  ; 
With  grief  my  heart  is  swelling, 

No  more  in  them  to  share  ; 
Nor  hear  that  sweet  voice  speaking 

When  hours  of  joy  run  high, 
Nor  meet  that  mild  eye  seeking 

When  sorrow's  touch  comes  nigh. 

Mother,  I  leave  thy  dwelling, 

And  the  sweet  hour  of  prayer  ; 
With  grief  my  heart  is  swelling 

No  more  to  meet  thee  there. 
Thy  faith  and  fervor,  pleading 

In  unspent  tones  of  love, 
Perchance  my  soul  are  leading 

To  better  hopes  above. 

Mother,  I  leave  thy  dwelling  ; 

O,  shall  it  be  forever  ? 
With  grief  my  heart  is  swelling, 

From  thee  —  from  thee  —  to  sever. 
These  arms,  that  now  enfold  me 

So  closely  to  thy  heart, 
These  eyes,  that  now  behold  me, 

From  all  —  from  all  —  I  part. 


Co)— 


TO    MISS    F.    A.    L.,    ON    HER   BIRTHDAY.  221 


TO  MISS  F.  A.  L.,  ON  HER  BIRTHDAY. 


WHAT  wish  can  friendship  form  for  thee, 
What  brighter  star  invoke  to  shine  ? 

Thy  path  from  every  thorn  is  free, 
And  every  rose  is  thine  ! 

Life  hath  no  purer  joys  in  store, 
Time  hath  no  sorrow  to  efface  ; 

Hope  cannot  paint  one  blessing  more 
Than  memory  can  retrace  ! 

Some  hearts  a  boding  fear  might  own, 
Had  fate  to  them  thy  portion  given, 

Since  many  an  eye,  by  tears  alone, 
Is  taught  to  gaze  on  heaven ! 

And  there  are  virtues  oft  concealed, 
Till  roused  by  anguish  from  repose, 

As  odorous  trees  no  balm  will  yield, 
Till  from  their  wounds  it  flows. 

But  fear  not  thou  the  lesson  fraught 

With  sorrow's  chastening  power  to  know  ; 

Thou  need's!  not  thus  be  sternly  taught 
"  To  melt  at  others'  woe." 

Then  still,  with  heart  as  blest,  as  warm, 
Rejoice  thou  in  thy  lot  on  earth  ; 

A.h  !  why  should  virtue  dread  the  storm, 
If  sunbeams  prove  her  worth  ? 


19 


222  THE  YOUNG  WIFE'S  APPEAL. 


THE  YOUNG  WIFE'S  APPEAL. 


O  HUSBAND,  husband,  go  not  out 

Again  this  stormy  night, 
For  snowy  clouds  have  hid  the  earth 

Within  a  robe  of  white. 
Hark  to  the  whistling  winds,  that  scream 

Like  fiends  amid  their  glee, 
And  now,  subdued,  they  seem  to  moan 

A  dirge-like  melody. 

O  husband,  husband,  do  not  leave 

Our  fire,  so  bright  and  warm, 
To  brave  the  darkness  of  the  night, 

And  dangers  of  the  storm. 
The  fire  it  burneth  pleasantly 

Upon  our  tidy  hearth  — 
We  may  be  happy  here  to-night, 

And  join  in  songs  of  mirth. 

Think  of  the  many  joyous  hours 

We  have  together  spent, 
When  to  my  grief  your  gentle  voice 

A  charm  of  music  lent. 
Think  of  the  holy  book  we  read, 

Ere  we  in  prayer  did  bow  ; 
And  here  it  is  —  the  same  good  book  — 

Come,  read  it  to  me  now. 


I    LIVE    TO    LOVE.  223 


I  LIVE  TO  LOVE. 


"  I  LIVE  to  love,"  said  a  laughing  girl, 
And  she  playfully  tossed  each  flaxen  curl, 
As  she  climbed  on  her  loving  father's  knee, 
And  snatched  a  kiss  in  her  childish  glee. 

"  I  live  to  love,"  said  a  maiden  fair, 
As  she  twined  a  wreath  for  her  sister's  hair  ; 
They  were  bound  by  the  cords  of  love  together 
And  death  alone  could  those  sisters  sever. 

u  I  live  to  love,"  said  a  gay  young  bride, 
Her  loved  one  standing  by  her  side  ; 
Her  life  told  again  what  her  lips  had  spoken, 
And  ne'er  was  the  link  of  affection  broken. 

"  I  live  to  love,"  said  a  mother  kind  — 
"  I  would  live  a  guide  to  the  infant  mind  ; " 
Her  precepts  and  example  given, 
Guided  her  children  home  to  heaven. 

"  I  shall  live  to  love,"  said  a  fading  form, 
And  her  eye  was  bright,  and  her  cheek  grew  warm, 
As  she  thought,  in  the  blissful  world  on  high, 
She  would  live  to  love,  and  never  die. 

And  ever  thus,  in  this  lower  world, 
Should  the  banner  of  love  be  wide  unfurled  ; 
And  when  we  meet  in  the  world  above, 
May  we  love  to  live,  and  live  to  love  ! 


224  FRIENDSHIP. 


FRIENDSHIP. 


FRIENDSHIP  !  peculiar  boon  of  Heaven, 
The  noble  mind's  delight  and  pride, 

To  men  and  angels  only  given, 
To  all  the  lower  world  denied. 

While  love,  unknown  among  the  blest, 
Parent  of  thousand  wild  desires, 

The  savage  and  the  human  breast 
Torments  alike  with  raging  fires. 

With  bright,  but  oft  destructive  gleam, 
Alike  o'er  all  his  lightnings  fly  ; 

Thy  lambent  glories  only  beam 
Around  the  favorites  of  the  sky. 

Thy  gentle  flows  of  guiltless  joy 
On  fools  and  villains  ne'er  descend  ; 

In  vain  for  thee  the  tyrant  sighs, 
And  hugs  a  flatterer  for  a  friend. 

Directress  of  the  brave  and  just, 

O,  guide  us  through  life's  darksome  way ! 
And  let  the  tortures  of  mistrust 

On  selfish  bosoms  only  prey. 

Nor  shall  thine  ardor  cease  to  glow, 
When  souls  to  blissful  climes  remove  ; 

What  raised  our  virtue  here  below, 
Shall  aid  our  happiness  above. 


BE    KIND.  225 


BE   KIND. 


BE  kind  to  thy  father  —  for  when  thou  wert  young, 

Who  loved  thee  so  fondly  as  he  ? 
He  caught  the  first  accents  that  fell  from  thy  tongue, 

And  joined  in  thy  innocent  glee. 
Be  kind  to  thy  father,  for  now  he  is  old, 

His  locks  intermingled  with  gray  ; 
His  footsteps  are  feeble,  once  fearless  and  bold ; 

Thy  father  is  passing  away. 

Be  kind  to  thy  mother  —  for,  lo  !  on  her  brow 

May  traces  of  sorrow  be  seen  ; 
O,  well  mayst  thou  cherish  and  comfort  her  now, 

For  loving  and  kind  hath  she  been. 
Remember  thy  mother  —  for  thee  she  will  pray 

As  long  as  God  giveth  her  breath  ; 
With  accents  of  kindness  then  cheer  her  lone  way, 

E'en  down  to  the  valley  of  death.  . 

Be  kind  to  thy  brother  —  his  heart  will  have  dearth 

If  the  smile  of  thy  joy  be  withdrawn  ; 
The  flowers  of  feeling  will  fade  at  the  birth, 

If  the  dew  of  affection  be  gone. 
Be  kind  to  thy  brother  —  wherever  you  are, 

The  love  of  a  brother  shall  be 
An  ornament  purer  and  richer  by  far 

Than  pearls  from  the  depth  of  the  sea. 


Q=-  —. --= 

226  BE    KIND. 

Be  kind  to  thy  sister  —  not  many  may  know 

The  depth  of  true  sisterly  love  ; 
The  wealth  of  the  ocean  lies  fathoms  below 

The  surface  that  sparkles  above. 
Thy  kindness  shall  bring  thee  many  sweet  hours, 

And  blessings  thy  pathway  to  crown  ; 
Affection  shall  weave  thee  a  garland  of  flowers 

More  precious  than  wealth  or  renown. 


LET  every  minute,  as  it  flies, 
Record  thee  good  as  well  as  wise : 
"While  such  pursuits  your  thoughts  engage, 
In  a  few  years  you'll  live  an  age. 
Who  measures  life  by  rolling  years  ? 
Fools  measure  by  revolving  spheres  ! 
Go  thou,  and  fetch  th'  unerring  rule 
From  Virtue's  and  from  Wisdom's  school. 
Who  well  improves  life's  shortest  day 
Will  scarce  regret  its  setting  ray. 


BE    KIND   TO    OLD   AGE.  227 


BE  KIND  TO  OLD  AGE. 


BE  ever  kind  to  those  who  bend 

Beneath  the  weight  of  time  ; 
For  they  were  once,  like  thee,  my  friend, 

In  blooming  manhood's  prime. 

But  bitter  cares  and  weary  years 

Have  borne  their  joys  away, 
Till  nought  remains  but  age  and  tears, 

And  darkening,  dim  decay. 

Life's  sweetest  hours  have  hastened  past, 

Its  bloom  is  faded  now, 
And  dusky  twilight  deepens  fast 

Along  the  furrowed  brow. 

And  soon  the  shattered  remnants  all 

A  narrow  house  receives  ; 
For  one  by  one  they  silent  fall, 

Like  withered  autumn  leaves. 

O,  then  be  kind,  where'er  thou  art  f 

Nor  deem  such  action  vain  ; 
Kind  words  can  make  the  aged  heart 

Seem  almost  young  again. 

Cheer  thou  the  weary  pilgrim  on 

To  yonder  mansion  cold  ; 
And  may  the  same  for  thee  be  done 

When  thou  thyself  art  old. 


228  GOOD   NIGHT. 


GOOD  NIGHT. 


DAY  is  past. 

Stars  have  set  their  watch  at  last, 
Founts  that  through  the  deep  woods  flow, 
Make  sweet  sounds  unheard  till  now, 
Flowers  have  shut  with  fading  light  — 

Good  night. 

Go  to  rest. 

Sleep  sits  dove-like  on  thy  breast ! 
If  within  that  secret  cell 
One  dark  form  of  memory  dwell, 
Be  it  mantled  from  thy  sight — 

Good  night ! 

Joy  be  thine. 

Kind  looks  o'er  thy  slumbers  shine  ! 
Go,  and  in  thy  spirit-land 
Meet  thy  home's  long  parted  band  ; 
Be  tbeir  eyes  all  love  and  light  — 

Good  night ! 

Peace  to  all ! 

Dreams  of  heaven  on  mourners  fall ! 
Exile,  o'er  thy  couch  may  gleams 
Pass  from  thine  own  mountain  streams  ; 
Bard,  away  to  worlds  more  bright  — 

Good  night ! 


=© 

TIME    FOR   ALL   THINGS.  229 


TIME  FOR  ALL  THINGS. 


THERE  is  a  time  to  live  !     'Tis  when 

The  world  hath  wants  ; 
When  we  can  dry  the  mourner's  tears, 
When  we  can  chase  the  gloomy  fears, 
Which  shadow  life's  eventful  years, 

And  haunt  our  world. 

There  is  a  time  to  work  !     'Tis  while 

The  daylight  lasts ; 
While  God  prolongs  existence  here, 
And  crowns  with  plenty  every  year, 
And  makes  his  goodness  to  appear 

In  all  around. 

There  is  a  time  to  play  !     'Tis  when 

Our  toil  is  o'er ; 

When  daylight  disappears  from  earth, 
And  loved  ones  gather  'round  the  hearth, 
And  youth  and  age  give  way  to  mirth, 

Which  nature  craves. 

There  is  a  time  to  weep  !     'Tis  when 

The  world  is  dark  ; 

When  parents,  friends,  and  loved  ones  die, 
And  our  fond  hopes  in  ruin  lie, 
And  life  and  beauty  quickly  fly 

From  every  breast. 


20 


230  TIME    FOE   ALL    THINGS. 

There  is  a  time  to  love  !     'Tis  when 

Life's  spring  is  bright ; 
When  friends  with  kindness  cluster  round, 
And  blessings  every  where  abound, 
And  warm  and  generous  hearts  are  found, 
To  cheer  our  own. 

There  is  a  time  to  dance'/     'Tis  when 

We  know  no  sin  ; 

On  flowery  plains  and  verdant  hills, 
While  music  every  bosom  thrills, 
And  love  to  God  each  heart  doth  fill, — 

Then  dance  with  songs. 

There  is  a  time  to  pray  !     'Tis  when 

We  hope  or  fear  ; 
In  times  of  happiness  or  woe, 
When  joy  or  ill  the  heart  doth  know, 
Let  sinners  to  the  Savior  go, 

And  always  pray. 

There  is  a  time  to  die  !     'Tis  when 

Our  work  is  done  ; 

'Tis  when  our  peace  with  God  is  made, 
And  we  in  Jesus'  robes  arrayed, 
And  from  our  eyes  the  earth  doth  fade,  — 

Then  may  we  die. 


BURNS   AND   HIS    HIGHLAND    MARY.  231 


BURNS  AND  HIS  HIGHLAND  MARY. 


FEW  poets  have  a  deeper  hold  on  the  hearts  of 
the  New  Englanders  than  Robert  Burns,  whose 
errors  are  forgotten  in  the  contemplation  of  his 
genius  and  his  worth. 

We  recently  had  in  our  possession  the  identical 
pair  of  Bibles  presented  by  the  immortal  Burns  to 
the  dearest  object  of  his  affections,  Highland  Mary,  < 
on  the  banks  of  the  winding  Ayr,  when  he  spent 
with  her  "one  day  of  parting  love."  They  are  in 
remarkably  good  preservation,  and  belong  to  a 
descendant  of  the  family  of  Mary's  mother,  Mrs. 
Campbell,  whose  property  they  became  on  the  death 
of  her  daughter ;  and  subsequently  Mrs.  Anderson, 
Mary's  only  surviving  sister,  acquired  them.  The 
circumstance  of  the  Bible  being  in  two  volumes, 
seemed  at  one  time  to  threaten  its  dismemberment, 
Mrs.  Anderson  having  presented  a  volume  to  each 
of  her  two  daughters;  but  on  their  approaching 
marriage,  their  brother  William  prevailed  on  them 
to  dispose  of  the  sacred  volumes  to  him.  On  the 
first  blank  leaf  of  the  first  volume  is  written,  in  the 

-=  — Q 


232  BURNS    AND    HIS    HIGHLAND    MARY. 

handwriting  of  the  immortal  bard,  "  And  ye  shall 
not  swear  by  my  name  falsely  —  I  am  the  Lord.  — 
Levit.  19th  chap.  12th  verse ; "  and  on  the  corre- 
sponding leaf  of  the  second  volume,  "  Thou  shalt 
not  forswear  thyself,  but  shalt  perform  unto  the  Lord 
thine  oath.  Matth.  5th  chap.  33d  verse."  On  the 
second  blank  leaf  of  each  volume,  there  are  the  re- 
mains of  "  Robert  Burns,  Mossigiel,"  in  his  hand- 
writing, beneath  which  is  drawn  a  masonic  emblem. 
At  the"  end  of  the  first  volume  there  is  a  lock  of 
Highland  Mary's  hair. 

There  is  a  mournful  interest  attached  to  these 
sacred  volumes  —  sacred  from  their  contents,  and 
sacred  from  having  been  a  pledge  of  love  from  the 
most  gifted  of  Scotland's  bards  to  the  artless  object 
,of  his  affections,  from  whom  he  was  separating,  no 
more  to  meet  on  this  side  the  grave.  The  life  of 
Burns  was  full  of  romance,  but  there  is  not  one  cir- 
cumstance in  it  all  so  romantic  and  full  of  interest 
as  those  which  attended  and  followed  the  gift  of 
these  volumes.  He  was  young  when  he  wooed  and 
\von  the  affections  of  Mary,  whom  he  describes  as 
"  a  warm-hearted,  charming  young  creature  as  ever 
blessed  a  man  with  generous  love."  The  attach- 
ment was  mutual,  and  forms  the  subject  of  many  of 
his  earlier  lyrics,  as  well  as  of  the  productions  of  his 
later  years,  which  shows  that  it  was  very  deep- 
rooted.  Before  he  was  known  to  fame,  steeped  in 
poverty  to  the  very  dregs,  and  meditating  an  escape 
to  the  West  Indies  from  the  remorseless  fangs  of  a 


o 


BURNS    AND    HIS    HIGHLAND   MARY.  233 

hard-hearted  creditor,   he   addressed   to  his    "  dear 
girl  "  the  song  which  begins, 

"  Will  ye  go  to  the  Indies,  my  Mary, 

And  leave  auld  Scotia's  shore  ? 
Will  you  go  to  the  Indies,  my  Mary, 
And  cross  the  Atlantic's  roar  ? " 

But  neither  Burns  nor  his  Mary  was  doomed  to 
"cross  the  Atlantic's  roar,"  nor  to  realize  those 
dreams  of  mutual  bliss  which  passion  or  enthusiasm 
had  engendered  in  their  youthful  imaginations. — 
Burns  was  called  to  Edinburgh,  there  to  commence 
his  career  of  fame,  which  was  to  terminate  in  chill 
poverty,  dreary  disappointment,  and  dark  despair ; 
while  Mary's  happier  lot,  after  a  transient  gleam  of 
the  sunshine  of  life,  was  to  be  removed  to  a  better 
and  a  happier  world.  Her  death  shed  a  sadness 
over  his  whole  future  life,  and  a  spirit  of  subdued 
grief  and  tenderness  was  displayed  whenever  she 
was  the  subject  of  his  conversation  or  writings.  — 
Witness  as  folfows  :  — 

"  Ye  banks,  and  braes,  and  streams  around 

The  castle  o*  Montgomerie, 
Green  be  your  woods,  and  fair  your  flowers, 

Your  waters  never  drumlie ; 
There  simmer  first  unfolds  her  robes, 

An'  there  they  langest  tarry, 
For  there  I  took  my  last  farweel 

O'  my  sweet  Hieland  Mary  !  " 

In  a  note  appended  to  this  song,  Burns  says, 
"  This  was  a  composition  of  mine  in  rny  early  life, 

20» 


234  BURNS   AND   HIS    HIGHLAND    MARY. 

before  I  was  known  at  all  to  the  world.  My  High- 
land lassie  was  a  warm-hearted,  charming  young 
creature  as  ever  blessed  a  man  with  generous  love. 
After  a  pretty  long  trial  of  the  most  ardent  recipro- 
cal affection,  we  met  by  appointment  on  the  second 
Sunday  of  May,  in  a  sequestered  spot  on  the  banks 
of  the  Ayr,  where  we  spent  a  day  in  taking  a  fare- 
well before  she  would  embark  for  the  West  High- 
lands, to  arrange  matters  among  her  friends  for  our 
projected  change  of  life.  At  the  close  of  the  au- 
tumn following,  she  crossed  the  sea  to  meet  me  at 
Greenock  ;  where  she  was  seized  with  a  malignant 
fever,  which  hurried  my  dear  girl  to  her  grave  in  a 
few  days,  before  I  could  even  hear  of  her  illness." 

It  was  at  this  romantic  and  interesting  meeting, 
on  the  banks  of  the  Ayr,  that  the  Bibles  before  us 
were  presented  to  Mary ;  and  he  must  have  a  heart 
of  stone,  indeed,  who  can  gaze  on  them  without  his 
imagination  calling  up  feelings  in  his  bosom  too  big 
for  utterance.  On  that  spot  they  exchanged  Bibles 
and -plighted  their  faith  to  each  other,  the  stream 
dividing  them,  and  the  sacred  book  grasped  by  both 
over  its  purling  waters.  This  was  the  only  token 
of  affection  each  had  to  give  the  other,  and  the 
wealth  of  the  Indies  could  not  have  procured  a  bet- 
ter or  more  appropriate  one. 

In  Lockhart's  Life  of  Burns  we  are  informed  that, 
several  years  after  the  death  of  Mary,  on  the  anni- 
versary of  the  day  which  brought  him  the  melan- 
choly intelligence,  he  appeared,  as  the  twilight 


@—  — — @ 

BURNS    AND    HIS    HIGHLAND    MARY.  235 


advanced,  (in  the  language  of  his  widow,)  "very 
sad  about  something  ;  "  and  though  the  evening  was 
a  cold  and  keen  one  in  September,  he  wandered  into 
his  barnyard,  from  which  the  entreaties  of  his  wife 
could  not,  for  some  time,  recall  him.  To  these  en- 
treaties he  always  promised  obedience,  but  these 
promises  were  but  the  lip-kindnesses  of  affection,  no 
sooner  made  than  forgotten,  for  his  eye  was  fixed 
on  heaven,  and  his  unceasing  stride  indicated  that 
his  heart  was  also  there.  Mrs.  Burns's  last  approach 
to  the  barnyard  found  him  stretched  on  a  mass  of 
straw,  looking  abstractedly  on  a  planet  which,  in  a 
clear,  starry  sky,  "  shone  like  another  noon,"  and 
having  prevailed  on  him  to  return  into  the  house,  he 
instantly  wrote,  as  they  stand,  the  following  sub- 
lime verses,  "  To  Mary  in  Heaven,"  which  have 
thrilled  through  many  breasts,  and  drawn  tears  from 
many  eyes,  and  which  will  live  the  noblest  of  the 
lyrics  of  Burns  while  sublimity  and  pathos  have  a 
responding  charm  in  the  hearts  of  Scotchmen. 

TO   MARY  IN   HEAVEN. 

Thou  lingering  star,  with  lessening  ray, 

That  lov'st  to  greet  the  early  morn, 
Again  thou  usher'st  in  the  day 

My  Mary  from  my  soul  was  torn. 

O  Mary  !  dear  departed  shade  ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest  ? 
Seest  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  this  breast  ? 

' 


236  BURNS    AND    HIS    HIGHLAND   MARY. 

That  sacred  hour  can  I  forget  ? 

Can  I  forget  the  hallowed  grove, 
Where  by  the  winding  Ayr  we  met, 

To  live  one  day  of  parting  love  ? 

Eternity  will  not  efface 

Those  records  dear  of  transports  past ; 
Thy  image  at  our  last  embrace  — 

Ah  !  little  thought  we  'twas  our  last ! 

Ayr  gurgling  kissed  his  pebbled  shore, 

O'erhung  with  wild  woods,  thickening  green 
1    The  fragrant  birch,  and  hawthorn  hoar, 

Twined  amorous  round  the  raptured  scene. 

The  flowers  sprang  wanton  to  be  pressed, 
The  birds  sang  love  on  every  spray, 

Till  soon,  too  soon,  the  glowing  west 
Proclaimed  the  speed  of  the  winged  day. 

Still  o'er  these  scenes  my  memory  wakes, 
And  fondly  broods  with  miser  care  ! 

Time  but  the  impression  deeper  makes, 
As  streams  their  channels  deeper  wear. 

My  Mary,  dear  departed  shade  ! 

Where  is  thy  blissful  place  of  rest  ? 
Seest  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast  ? 


SMILES.  237 


SMILES. 


WERE  no  bright  smiles  to  shed  their  light 

Upon  life's  clouded  way, 
Our  path  would  lead  through  constant  night, 

Without  one  cheerful  ray. 

A  smiling  face  is  like  the  sun, 

Whose  rays  encircle  earth  — 
It  sheds  its  beams  on  every  one, 

Without  regard  to  birth. 

Smiles  well  compare  with  fragrant  flowers 

Upon  some  desert  spot  — 
They  cheer  the  heart  in  those  sad  hours 

Which  mark  affliction's  lot. 

Warm-hearted  smiles  wield  magic  power 

O'er  all  the  sons  of  grief  — 
They  gild  the  clouds  that  darkly  lower, 

Imparting  kind  relief. 

The  angels  smile  who  bend  their  flight 

Towards  our  fallen  sphere  ; 
And  all  engage,  with  fond  delight, 

The  sorrowful  to  cheer. 

Were  smiles  to  glow  in  every  face 

Now  sternly  fixed  on  men, 
Our  world  would  be  a  blissful  place, 

A  paradise  again. 


238  FAR    AWAY. 


FAR  AWAY. 


FAR  away  !  —  my  home  is  far  away, 

Where  the  blue  sea  laves  a  mountain  shore  ; 

In  the  woods  I  hear  my  brothers  play, 

'Midst  the  flowers  my  sister  sings  once  more, 

Far  away ! 

Far  away  !  my  dreams  are  far  away, 

When,  at  midnight,  stars  and  shadows  reign  ; 

"  Gentle  child,"  my  mother  seems  to  say, 

"  Follow  me,  where  home  shall  smile  again  !  " 
,  Far  away ! 

Far  away  !  my  hope  is  far  away, 

Where  love's  voice  young  gladness  may  restore  ; 
O  thou  dove  !  now  soaring  through  the  day, 

Lend  me  wings  to  reach  that  better  shore, 

Far  away ! 


THE    LADY    ROSE.  239 


THE  LADY  ROSE. 


WHY  better  than  the  lady  rose 

Love  I  this  little  flower  ? 
Because  its  fragrant  leaves  are  those 

I  loved  in  childhood's  hour. 

Let  Nature  spread  her  loveliest, 
By  spring  or  summer  nursed  ; 

Yet  still  I  love  the  violet  best, 
Because  I  loved  it  first ! 

Thou  beautiful  new-comer, 
With  white  and  maiden  brow, 

Thou  fairy  gift  from  summer, 
Why  art  thou  blooming  now  ? 

No  sweet  companion  pledges 
Thy  health  as  dew-drops  pass  ; 

No  rose  is  on  the  hedges, 
No  violet  in  the  grass. 

Thou  art  watching,  and  thou  only, 
Above  the  earth's  snow-tomb  ; 

Thus  lovely  and  thus  lonely, 
I  bless  thee  for  thy  bloom. 


240  THE    BIHD   AT    SEA. 


THE  BIRD  AT  SEA. 


BIRD  of  the  greenwood, 
O,  why  art  thou  here  ? 

Leaves  dance  not  o'er  thee, 
Flowers  bloom  not  near. 

All  the  sweet  waters 
Far  hence  at  play  — 

Bird  of  the  greenwood, 
Away,  away ! 

Where  the  mast  quivers, 
Thy  place  will  not  be, 

As  'midst  the  waving 
Of  wild  rose  and  tree. 

How  shouldst  thou  battle 
With  storm  and  with  spray  ? 

Bird  of  the  greenwood, 
Away,  away ! 

Or  art  thou  seeking 

Some  brighter  land, 
Where,  by  the  south  wind, 

Vine  leaves  are  fanned  ? 
'Midst  the  wild  billows, 

Why  then  delay  ? 
Bird  of  the  greenwood, 
Away,  away ! 


A    SIMILE.  241 


"  Chide  not  my  lingering 
Where  storms  are  dark  ; 

A  hand  that  hath  nursed  me 
Is  in  the  bark  ; 

A  heart  that  hath  cherished 
Through'  winter's  long  day  ; 

So  I  turn  from  the  greenwood ; 
Away,  away ! " 


As  summer  birds  and  summer  flowers, 
To  cheer  the  heart,  so  briefly  stay, 

So  spirit-pleasures  from  the  bowers 
Of  love  and  peace  soon  haste  away. 

But  summer  birds  and  summer  flowers 
Return  with  each  returning  spring ; 

So  oft  return  life's  happy  hours, 
When  spirit-joys  the  soul  may  sing. 


•21 


(o).  

242  THE    PRAIRIE. 


THE  PRAIRIE. 


GOD  formed  the  world  for  beauty, 

And  hung  it  in  the  air, 
Then  clothed  it  in  its  loveliness, 

And  called  it  "  good  "  and  fair. 
His  are  the  burnished  heavens, 

With  all  their  orbs  of  light ; 
He  gave  the  stars  their  lustre 

They  shed  upon  the  night. 

He  made  the  mighty  ocean, 

Its  grandeur  and  its  grace, 
And  gave  its  mystic  splendor 

A  mirror  for  His  facer. 
No  nobler  emblem  hath  He,  * 

No  greater,  none  more  free, 
No  symbol  half  so  touching 

As  the  bounding,  mighty  sea. 

But  O,  the  blooming  prairie  ! 

Here  are  God's  floral  bowers  ; 
Of  all  that  He  hath  made  on  earth, 

The  loveliest  are  the  flowers. 
This  is  the  Almighty's  garden, 

And  the  mountains,  stars,  and  sea 
Are  nought,  compared  in  beauty 

With  God's  garden  prairie  free. 

@ 


FABLE    OF    THE    WOOD    ROSE    AND   THE    LAUREL.      243 


FABLE  OF  THE  WOOD  HOSE  AND  THE  LAUREL. 


IN  these  deep  shades  a  floweret  blows, 
Whose  leaves  a  thousand  sweets  disclose  ; 
With  modest  air  it  hides  its  charms, 
And  every  breeze  its  leaves  alarms ; 
Turns  on  the  ground  its  bashful  eyes, 
And  oft  unknown,  neglected,  dies. 
This  flower,  as  late  I  careless  strayed, 
I  saw  in  all  its  charms  arrayed. 
Fast  by  the  spot  where  low  it  grew, 
A  proud  and  flaunting  Wood  Rose  bleW. 
With  haughty  air  her  head  she  raised, 
And  on  the  beauteous  plant  she  gazed. 
While  struggling  passion  swelled  her  breast, 
She  thus  her  kindling  rage  expressed  :  — 

"  Thou  worthless  flower, 
Go  leave  my  bower, 
And  hide  in  humbler  scenes  thy  head  : 
How  dost  thou  dare, 
Where  roses  are, 
Thy  scents  to  shed  ? 

Go,  leave  my  bower,  and  live  unknown ; 
I'll  rule  the  field  of  flowers  alone." 

"And  dost  thou  "think,"  the  Laurel  cried, 
And  raised  its  head  with  modest  pride, 
While  on  its  little  trembling  tongue 
A  drop  of  dew  incumbent  hung, — 


244      FABLE    OF    THE    WOOD    ROSE    AND    THE    LAUREL. 

"  And  dost  thou  think  I'll  leave  this  bower, 
The  seat  of  many  a  friendly  flower, 

The  scene  where  first  I  grew  ? 
Thy  haughty  reign  will  soon  be  o'er, 
And  thy  frail  form  will  bloom  no  more  ; 

My  flower  will  perish  too. 

"  But  know,  proud  rose, 
When  winter's  snows 

Shall  fall  where  once  thy  beauties  stood, 
My  pointed  leaf  of  shining  green 
Will  still  amid  the  gloom  be  seen, 

To  cheer  the  leafless  wood." 

"  Presuming  fool !  "  the  Wood  Rose  cried, 
And  strove  in  vain  her  shame  to  hide ; 

But,  ah  !  no  more  the  flower  could  say  ; 
For,  while  she  spoke,  a  transient  breeze 
Came  rustling  through  the  neighboring  trees, 

And  bore  her  boasted  charms  away. 

And  such,  said  I,  is  beauty's  power! 
Like  thee  she  falls,  poor,  trifling  flower  ; 

And,  if  she  lives  her  little  day, 
Life's  winter  comes  with  rapid  pace, 
And  robs  her  form  of  every  grace, 

And  steals  her  bloom  away. 

But  in  thy  form,  thou  Laurel  green, 
Fair  virtue's  semblance  soon  is  seen. 

In  life  she  cheers  each  different  stage, 
Spring's  transient  reign,  and  summer's  glow, 
And  autumn  mild,  advancing  slow, 

And  lights  the  eye  of  age. 


MARGERY.  245 


MARGERY. 


I  SEE  thee  still,  as  in  a  dream, 

Margery  ! 
I  am  changed,  but  thou  dost  seem 

The  same  to  me, 

The  same  sweet  being  bright  and  fair, 
With  beaming  eyes,  and  auburn  hair, 
That  once  did  my  young  heart  insnare, 

Margery  ! 

For  pure,  primeval  charms  were  thine, 

Margery  ! 
Expressing  innocence  divine 

So  beauteously, 

That  village  maidens  loved  to  bear 
Garlands  to  thee  of  flowerets  rare, 
And  owned  thee  "  fairest  of  the  fair," 

Margery  ! 

Clear  wandering  waters  —  balmy  gales, 

Margery  ! 
Calm  moonlight  walks,  and  tender  tales 

I  told  to  thee  ; 

These  trooping  to  my  mind  return, 
My  fancies  glow,  and  feelings  yearn  :  — 
'Tis  o'er  —  and  I  again  do  mourn, 

Margery  ! 


21* 


@ 

246  MARGERY. 

Thou  wast  a  flower  that  faded  soon, 

Margery ! 
A  star  that  waned  before  night's  noon 

Did  come  to  thee. 

Admiring  eyes  were  strained  to  know 
The  heavenly  light  thou  didst  bestow, 
And  grieved  that  thou  so  soon  must  go, 

Margery ! 

Joys  are  now  thine,  beyond  compare, 

Margery ! 
Thy  harp  and  song  ascend  in  air 

Where  angels  be ; 

Thy  guileless  heart  and  thoughtful  brow, 
Thy  frequent  orisons  which  thou 
Didst  love,  receive  rich  guerdon  now, 

Margery ! 

I  still  remain,  and  cares  are  mine, 

Margery ! 
Yet,  as  I  weakly  would  repine, 

I  think  of  thee  ; 

Then  halcyon  scenes  we  trod  of  yore  — 
Thoughts  that  with  sweet  romance  ran  o^er, 
And  all  blest  things  thou  dost  restore, 

Margery ! 


RETURNING  A  STOLEN  KING.  247 


RETURNING  A  STOLEN  RING. 


WELL,  lady,  take  again  tne  ring, 
To  deck  that  lily  hand  of  thine, 

And  with  it  take  the  gift  I  bring, 
To  lay  on  beauty's  golden  shrine. 

With  every  joy  and  pleasure  gay, 
May  all  thine  hours  roll  swift  along, 

And  life  in  beauty  glide  away, 
Like  the  rich  cadence  of  a  song. 

And  in  that  future  happy  time, 

Thine  earlier  friends  perchance  forgot, 
Say,  wilt  thou  read  this  careless  rhyme, 

And  him  who  wrote  remember  not  ? 

Remember  not !  and  can  it  be 
That  joyous  memories  ever  die  ? 

That  all  my  heart  can  feel  for  thee 
Is  but  a  lightly  whispered  sigh  ? 

Ay,  it  is  written  on  our  lot, 

That  lot  so  varied,  dark,  and  strange, 
To  meet,  to  pass,  and  be  forgot, 

In  painful  and  perpetual  change. 

But  dash  this  idle  gloom  away, 
And  be  again  the  gay  and  free  ; 

Thou  must  not  to  thy  dying  day 
Forget  this  stolen  ring  and  me  ! 


248  THE    VOICE    OF    SPRING   AND   AUTUMN. 


THE  VOICE  OF  SPRING  AND  -AUTUMN. 


THE  voice  of  Spring  !  and  blushing  flowers 

Lean  trembling  from  their  seats, 
Wooing  from  sunbeams  and  from  showers 

A  free  exchange  of  sweets  : 
Blithe  birds  their  matin  notes  prolong 

Among  the  cottage  vines, 
And  cottage  children  list  the  song  — 

Sweet  incense  to  sweet  shrines  ! 
Loath  to  depart,  the  sunny  stream, 

Oft  turning,  glides  away  — 
All  things  of  Paradise,  the  dream 

To  this  dim  spot  convey. 

Hearts,  which  the  sweet  affections  bind 

With  nature's  purest  tie, 
Where  hope  and  faith  are  deeply  shrined, 

Too  deeply,  soon  to  die  — 
Ye  love  the  season  !  pure  as  light, 

Untired  the  spirits  play  : 
Rich  dreams  are  yours  for  coming  night, 

And  richer  still  for  day. 
"  Speed,  speed  my  bark  !  life's  laughing  seas 

Are  not  as  false  as  fair  "  — 
The  white  sail  fills  —  cold  blows  the  breeze, 

And  rocks  have  darkened  there  ! 


THE    VOICE    OF    SPRING   AND   AUTUMN.  249 

The  voice  of  Autumn  !   earth  receives 

The  summons  of  decay  : 
Rustling  around,  the  yellow  leaves 

Bestrew  the  wanderer's  way. 
No  bloom  or  balm  to  cheer  the  hours  ; 

The  blithe  bird  sings  no  more  ; 
Hoarse  brawls  the  stream  in  forest  bowers, 

That  murmured  sweet  before  ; 
Through  the  black  woodland,  dim  and  pale, 

The  dying  hills  appear  ; 
And  hark  !  the  moaning  night-winds  wail 

The  requiem  of  the  year  ! 

Hearts,  where  misfortune  has  effaced 

The  sunrise  beams  of  youth, 
And  cold  experience  truly  traced, 

"  Earth  is  no  home  for  truth  ; " 
Fame,  friendship,  pleasure,  —  vainly  bought  — 

Love  —  wasted  to  a  sigh  — 
Dark  night  descending  —  ere  ye  thought 

The  gentle  evening  nigh  : 
What  hope  remains  ?     "  Lone  Autumn's  smile 

To  mourners  kindly  given, 
Wasted  on  changing  earth  a  while, 

Beams  from  unchanging  heaven." 


250  I    GO,    SWEET    FRIENDS. 


I  GO,  SWEET  FRIENDS. 


I  GO,  sweet  friends  !  yet  think  of  me 

When  Spring's  young  voice  awakes  the  flowers ; 
For  we  have  wandered  far  and  free, 

In  those  bright  hours,  the  violet's  hours. 

I  go,  but  when  you  pause  to  hear, 

From  distant  hills,  the  Sabbath  bell 
On  summer  winds  float  silvery  clear, 

Think  on  me  then  —  I  loved  it  well ! 

Forget  me  not  around  your  hearth, 
When  cheerly  smiles  the  ruddy  blaze, 

For  dear  hath  been  its  evening  mirth, 
To  me,  sweet  friends,  in  other  days. 

And  O,  when  music's  voice  is  heard 

To  melt  in  strains  of  parting  woe, 
When  hearts  to  love  and  grief  are  stirred,  — 

Think  of  me  then  !    I  go,  I  go  ! 


GOOD   BY.  251 


GOOD  BY. 


FAREWELL  !  farewell !  is  often  heard 

From  the  lips  of  those  who  part ; 
'Tis  a  whispered  tone  —  'tis  a  gentle  word, 

But  it  springs  not  from  the  heart. 
It  may  serve  for  the  lover's  closing  lay, 

To  be  sung  'neath  a  summer's  sky ; 
But  give  to  me  the  lips  that  say 

The  honest  words  —  "  Good  by !  " 

Adieu  !  adieu  !  may  greet  the  ear, 

In  the  guise  of  courtly  speech  ; 
But  when  we  leave  the  kind  and  dear, 

'Tis  not  what  the  soul  would  teach. 
Whene'er  we  grasp  the  hands  of  those 

We  would  have  forever  nigh, 
The  flame  of  friendship  bursts  and  glows 

In  the  warm,  frank  words  —  "  Good  by  !  "' 

The  mother,  sending  forth  her  child 

To  meet  with  cares  and  strife, 
Breathes,  through  her  tears,  her  doubts  and  fears 

For  the  loved  one's  future  life. 
No  cold  "  adieu,"  no  "  farewell,"  lives 

Within  her  choking  sigh  ; 
But  the  deepest  sob  of  anguish  gives  — 

"  God  bless  thee,  boy  !  good  by ! " 


252  THE    HISTORY    OF    LIFE. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  LIFE. 


DAY  dawned.     Within  a  curtained  room, 
Filled  to  faintness  with  perfume, 
A  lady  lay  at  point  of  doom. 

Day  closed.     A  child  has  seen  the  light, 
But  for  the  lady  fair  and  bright, 
She  rested  in  undreaming  night ! 

Spring  came.     The  lady's  grave  was  green, 

And  near  it  oftentimes  was  seen 

A  gentle  boy,  with  thoughtless  mien. 

Years  fled.     He  wore  a  manly  face, 
And  struggled  in  the  world's  rough  race, 
And  won  at  last  a  lofty  place. 

And  then  HE  DIED  !     Behold  before  ye 

Humanity's  brief  sum  and  story, 

Life,  Death,  and  all  there  is  of — Glory. 


THE    END. 


UfiSB  LIBRARY 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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